


Heart of Stone

by FallenAngelinMirkwood



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Barrel of fun, Adorable Bilbo, Adventure, Angst, Arsehole Thranduil, Barrels are not fun anymore, Confused Thorin, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Everyone is keeping secrets, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gandalf what are you not telling us, Gandalf where are you going, Good-bye Mirkwood, Harsh Thorin, Hello there Mirkwood, I dont know how to tag, In this Age well yeah, Interspecies Awkwardness, More Fluff, One does not simply throw the lake man over the side and be done with him, Or not, Sexual Frustration, Sweet Bofur, Tags May Change, Thorin don't lose the path, Thorin show your emotions please, Unresolved Sexual Tension, What has Bilbo got in his pockets?, Wizard meddling, and orcs, arsehole thorin, chapters, drunkenness (at some point), frustratingly a lot of, harsh treatment, he doesnt understand women, he will eventually, i dont know where i'm going but i'm going there anyway, mild violence, no offense, slow thorin, sorry for the angst, tags are not in order, their secrets have secrets, yes more fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:11:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenAngelinMirkwood/pseuds/FallenAngelinMirkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving oneself,<br/>and one always ends by deceiving others.<br/>That is what the world calls a romance—Oscar Wilde</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Haha wow. this is my first time publishing a story here and also the first time i've written a reader insert.  
> I write down the plot but i end up changing things extremely as i write hehe  
> This is inspired by the book and the movie and hopefully the third movie would be out when i finish it to avoid spoilers c:  
> Sorry for the sudden title change. I've listened to Heart of Stone by Iko far too many times and so I decided to make it the title.  
> again, it's my first time so.. please be gentle!
> 
> I DO NOT OWN THESE CHARACTERS OR YOU (maybe you)

The wind passes through your hair, taunting you, making you quake against it but you cannot stop now. You’re running; feet beating against the ground, trying your best not to make it tremble beneath your large boots. The trees merely flash by you swift and unmoving. You hear the sound of hooves lightly treading on the nearby path and you come to a fleeting halt, listening to the subtle noise. _There are a many of them_ , you thought trying not to utter any sounds as you bring your bow to your grasp. You hear a faint laughter and slowly walk towards it, reaching for an arrow from your quiver and loosely placing it on your string. The laughter died down but the thundering of hooves grew louder. You swiftly placed your back against a nearby tree, turned against the path on the sunken ground beneath the small cliff when a large pointy hat came into view. Looking over your shoulder you saw them passed by. However, they were lesser than you deemed earlier—about half a dozen plus the tall man with the large hat. _No matter_ , you fitted your arrow against the string aiming for the dark haired one riding behind the tall man. _Was he not taller and longer-haired in the description?_ You gazed at the Dwarf and pondered at your thoughts for a moment. _Perhaps that is no—_

“Lower your weapons.” A stern voice commanded behind you. You felt his eyes burning against your skin and the intensity of his voice made you turn slowly toward him. You met his gaze whilst the tip of his blade met the skin on your neck brushing against it but not scraping it. His icy blue eyes burned through your soul making you shudder. You dropped your bow to avoid further harm and another dwarf appeared and confiscated it and your quiver.

Your eyes never left his, stern and grim as his; you had looked upon the dwarf who had rendered you a prisoner. The same one whose head you want on a platter.

Moments later your arms tied behind your back and your feet bonded as well and you sat on the ground while thirteen Dwarves a Halfling and an old man—whom you later discovered was a Wizard was in front of you, arguing; you could not tell what about however you were most certain it was about what to do with you. The rope burned your skin at their tautness. It was not long before the Wizard left the company and looked down at you, leaning against his staff.

“What is your name?” he asked with no force and it did not sound like any command.

You did not answer and avoided the old man’s gaze.

He leaned down and softened his voice in attempt to calm you or to give at least a small amount of trust for you to speak. “Do not fret, child,” he said; “I am not here to bring any harm to you.” When you did not answer once more he gave a soft sigh and stood up. “I shall come back and hopefully you are willing to cooperate just speak my name—which is Gandalf—when you are ready to tell me your part. I mean you no harm and you have all the right to think me otherwise.”

You looked up at him with soft eyes and your expression blank. He returned a smile and walked back towards the company of Dwarves and a Halfling. You followed him with your gaze and met cold blue eyes once more. He looked to you with such rage and fierceness buried beneath his eyes, piercing your soul as if he was going to slaughter you with this contact. For some reason you did not blame him. You had looked to him with the same fierceness yet there was fear behind it all.

Averting your eyes to the ground you still felt the brutality of his stare. You ponder at your life and question yourself: _how has it become into this?_ Then you recalled another cold stare you have experienced. One that has been haunting you since, one you fear you will never forget; the cold, lifeless gape of your only sister when clawed for breath and died in your arms.

You have not a fulfilling life. Most nights you had wished you would not wake up the next morning. Your father was a nice man to you and your sister, he had taught you how to hunt and your sister how to heal. But to others, he was another thief stealing bread and fruits when he could find it. Work had not been kind to him, he had lost countless jobs and no longer would anyone accept him; the men of the Riddermark have never been so kind to thieves amongst them. This is mainly how he reverted to stealing food only to eat once or twice a day. Your mother was kindhearted as well however that is what your sister Dianiea says. You have never fully met your mother for she had passed a few days after you had been born. Your father never wanted to speak of your mother or he would again grieve as if she had died all over again.

Rumors had spread that your father had killed your mother because he attempted to murder you for he did not want another mouth to feed and another burden brought to this earth. Of course you never believed them. Your mother died of a sickness. A sickness no one understood. 

Then life had continued its brutality. Your father had been struck down with harsh wounds. And you could never forget the day when he came into your small home that he built behind a barn. The scent of blood fuming through the air as it flowed down from his deep cuts like rivers. His clothes torn from his body and the flesh on his back ripped apart like shredded cloth. He was beaten down by soldiers of the Riddermark for his thievery, you assumed.  Swiftly, Dianiea had attended to father for she had a great ability in healing and tending to such wounds. You had given your sister all that she required and attempted cleaned his wounds. But he grew pale and his lips violet and his eyes grey and died from the loss of blood. The day your father died was a day you could not forget. You could still recall the scent of simbelmyne where he was buried in the woods—to avoid the peering eyes and the cruel taunts of the men he stole from. But it was only bread and fruits that he stole to feed his children and himself. She was twenty years of age and you were twelve that day.

“Do not fret,” Dianiea had said whilst she knelt down to embrace you. Her soft black hair cascading on your shoulder and you buried your face in it, drenched with hot tears as they swelled from your eyes and your arms tightly wrapped around her. “I am here to protect you,” her eyes filled with tears and fell on her fair face. “No harm shall come to you as long as I am here.”

You have lived with your sister in the small house behind the barn for many a year now. You are now seventeen and your sister was twenty-five. It has been a while since you both have eaten more than half a loaf of bread and long has it been since you felt a great depression. No soldiers have bothered you and Dianiea yet many whispers and chatters have broken out whenever you or Dianiea pass by.

“No matter,” your sister always says when you both pass through a crowd, “They have just nothing to do so they speak falsely of those they deem lesser than them.”

“Or they are jealous or awestruck by your beauty,” you gave a rare smile and your sister would merely laugh at the thought.

Dianiea had taught you all she knew of healing and amending and you had decided to open a small tent whereas you would tend to the sick and wounded with your sister. Not more than a handful of people would take your generous offer at a small price. They would usually be reluctant to accept such an offer from the daughters of a thief and suspected murderer. However, you and your sister’s skills were acknowledged and lesser people have been reluctant to both your service.

But slowly the dark crept in, each day it grew fiercer until it had finally snuffed out the light. Dianiea became ill. You had tended to her for many a day and night but it only got worse. You remembered her cries of pain and the hot tears that fell down her face. You did not want to lose your sister, the only family you have left, the one who cared for you all these years and now that she is in pain you cannot do anything to stop it.

You could not find the source of her illness and the cure to stop it. You did everything to attempt her wellness but nothing worked.

She whispered your name one night and you turned to her, your tearstained face and blood shot eyes meeting hers. Her eyes a hint of grey and tears still rolled down her face. She muttered your name once more, just below a whisper and you came closer, your lower lip quivering. “You did all you could.” She said softly, her beautiful voice cracking beneath the pain.

“But it was not enough.” You said plainly, controlling the swell of emotions and the crack of your own voice.

She muttered your name once more, reaching out a hand to touch your cheek. You placed your hand over hers. And softly sang a verse from the lullaby she always sang to you.

_The woods shall wave on mountains_

_And grass beneath the sun;_

_His wealth shall flow in fountains_

_And the rivers golden run..._

You stopped when she gave a soft chuckle and tears rolled down her face. She looked to you with grey eyes choked out her final breath. Her hand grew limp in yours and you held it ever so tightly as tears swelled in your eyes. Her hand grew cold like her face and her eyes that continued to gaze at you. Holding back your cries you placed a hand over her forehead and brushed it against her face, closing her eyes as if she were asleep. You felt the coldness in her skin and placed her hand over her stomach and watched as the colour drenched from her being.

She was thirty-one and you twenty-three when she had died and you buried her next to your father. Tears could no longer stream down your face for there are no more. The pain still lingered and simbelmyne grew where they have been buried. You can take no more pain. You no longer wish to feel the grief and suffering you have barely endured.

Your service to the people as a healer has depreciated. They clearly did not want a healer who could not even save her own sister. And you did not blame them but yourself. You take all that is yours—a cloak, a bow and quiver which belonged to your father, a satchel and a dagger—and leave this town, taking no steed and leaving the people who have been kind and cruel to you.

Traveling for many leagues, stopping only to hunt for food and to rest, you came across a group of men in Dunland. It was not long before you earned their trust and they found you respectable at the same time vicious. He carried an old cloth with him, tattered and clearly passed on by different characters. You grew curious as to what was written on it.

“That cloth, what does it say?” You asked autocratically, your voice stern and your gaze fierce.

The man crouched down and lowered his voice. “Ya don’t know yet, do ya?” You raised a questioning eyebrow and shook your head. He continued; “Word has been goin’ ‘bout this Dwarf with a pretty price on his head. Whoever would capture the fellow would be in for a lot of money.”

The thought lingered in your mind. _One Dwarf for a surprising amount of money..._ you were tempted. Your hunting skills have improved and you deemed it would not be hard to track down one Dwarf and end his life. But the thought of killing someone stung you. Shaking your head at the thought, you asked: “Where has he been seen last?”

“He’s been seen in Bree then the last of his whereabouts have been over the Misty Mountains,” he said and you nodded. _It is not so far from here, perhaps I can catch up with him_.

“What does he look like?”

Your string of thoughts was interrupted when a figure loomed over you. Looking up, you saw the Dwarf you intended to kill. You never learned his name and you do not intend to. His eyes were cold blue as he gawked at you and you returned the gesture. His raven hair had thin rivers of silver running through them and his braids and hair cascaded on his shoulder.

“Why is it you follow us?” His voice was brooding and it made your chest tremble as you desperately tried to show no fear in your eyes. You did not answer, which made him all the more furious. “You have been doing so for many leagues and then you attempt to kill one of my kin. Speak!” His voice thundered through your chest and ears and yet you continue to say nothing and gaze blankly into his fierce blue eyes. You see him grit his teeth and unsheathe his blade swiftly, brushing the edge of the blade slightly against the side of your neck. His hands did not shake and his hold was forebodingly steady.

At last, you spoke; “I did not intend to kill your kin.”

He cursed in a language you did not understand. “I saw you fit your arrow and nearly release it and you say you have no intentions of killing him?” he said in Common Tongue and disgust and rage was evident in his tone.

“I thought he was you,” a phrase you will soon regret having left your mouth. His eyes grew dark and foreboding piercing through your soul as it did earlier. It stung and you shuddered though you tried so hard to keep your expression blank he could now clearly see the fear as your lip quivers. Frightfully you close your eyes and wish that it once you open them once more you would see your sister and father and mother. But as you open your eyes you see that the Dwarf has left you unscathed.


	2. Ruthless Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just want to leave and never bother them again. You regret even planning on bothering them; now, look where that led you to. Your hands and feet tied and you sat on the ground awaiting your death or freedom. Life has been cruel once more.

You bend your head forward and gawk at the ground. The cool wind is shattering against you and the grass whistles in contentment—you almost feel like it’s mocking you. The wind sings and howls against your ear but then falls faint when you hear the company bickering once more. You can take no more of this. You just want to leave and never bother them again. You regret even planning on bothering them; now, look where that led you to. Your hands and feet tied and you sat on the ground awaiting your death or freedom. Life has been cruel once more.

Then you recall what the Wizard had said about saying his name when you are willing to cooperate. And you are, but only to some extent. Just enough for them to believe that you will leave and are to never return. It took you moments before recalling what the Wizard’s name was. You seem to have forgotten it amidst the recent event and your being lost in thought for a good while. Then you clearly recalled—“Gandalf,” you spoke, louder than you had thought.

The Wizard turned his back on the bickering company who now fell silent. He walked towards you, his cloak of grey flowing as he took each step and his staff lightly stabbing the ground. He leaned on it and looked down at you, the brim of his large hat blocking the light yet his eyes still gleamed. “You called me, my dear?” his voice was sweet like any old man’s. But appearances can be deceiving.

You nodded and he bent down to get a better look at you. At length you spoke with a sigh, “I had no intentions of harming whoever it was I was aiming at. I merely thought he was the Dwarf with dark hair and blue eyes. I was told there was a price on his head and I reluctantly went forth and tried to claim the prize. But I assure you I have no grudge with this Dwarf and I only intended to harm him because I am yet another victim of poverty.”

The Wizard looked to you with such pity. “I understand, my dear,” he said and gave you a reassuring smile. “You are the first of the bounty hunters that has gotten so close to harming anyone of us and although that is not a good thing, I am impressed by your skill. Your intentions seem to be pure and I see no foul intent. But it is not wise to be hunting one who is the heir to the throne of Durin, my dear.”

You raise an eyebrow at the thought. Though, you are unfamiliar with the line of Durin and Dwarvish history or anything that relates to Dwarves at the matter. “I am sorry,” you spoke, making Gandalf raise his eyebrows in confusion; “I know not of who you speak. As I said, I am yet a victim of poverty for I was born into it and I have no knowledge of Dwarves”—you turned to the hobbit who was sitting on a rock and blowing his nose into a cloth—“or Halflings”—turning back to Gandalf—“or much of Wizards for that matter.”

He chuckled lowly, amused that you are not like the rest of the bounty hunters and the innocent look in your eyes made you all the more convincing. It was most unlikely that you were lying; you honestly had no idea who these people were and felt threatened by their presence as much as they were threatened about yours.

“There is much I must tell you then however I deem you have much to tell yourself.” He looked right through your fearless self and saw your anguish and you felt yourself shattering against his gaze so you averted it, hanging your head. “You have dealt with a great loss,” he said softly as you turn to meet his gaze once more. “I can see it in your eyes; you may tell me of it only if you wish to. I cannot force you otherwise.”

You told him of your family’s death and choked to hold back your tears from falling from your eyes. When you had spilled your sorrows to a Wizard who you have only met you cannot help but feel a relief yet it was shrouded in anguish. He comforted you and gave you reassuring smiles. And when you had finished he fell silent but spoke soon enough. “You said you have a gift of healing, did you not?”

You did not want to be rude and so you nodded.

“Perhaps you could be of service to us,” he began and noticed the immediate look of shock in your face. You clearly did not want to spend more time with Dwarves who think you are planning to murder their leader. They would certainly kill you. “The Dwarves would clearly not accept your freedom for they would think you will return and once more attempt to kill Thorin, and they will not accept your being alive. But if you are of service to them then they would gain your trust and would not conspire to kill you. No matter, once you gain their trust you are free to leave. I am not so certain of how long that would take, however. Dwarves are stubborn, and especially their leader at that.”

 _Great, I am stuck with thirteen dwarves and their stubborn leader for who knows how long, and they all want to kill me._ Life could not be any crueler.

“Shall I inform the others of your joining the Company?” he asked his voice pure with sympathy. At length you sighed and nodded, earning a slight smile from Gandalf as he rose and left. He immediately walked toward Thorin who had his arms crossed against his broad chest. Emotionless was his face but his eyes were dark with rage. “Well?” he said.

“I have asked her to join the company,” Gandalf said plainly.

The king gritted his teeth and furrowed his brows in ire “That is not at all in our discussion!”

“She has a skill in healing, Thorin. She could be of help to us. You only intend to rid of her as if she is worth nothing.” Gandalf raised his voice enough for you to hear and you stilled, you feel as if you were stabbed in your chest and you do not know why.

“Has she not intended to rid of me as well?” Thorin’s voice struck you like a spear thrusting its way into your chest; even from afar you can feel his wrath and thundering tone.

 “She has no grudge against you, Thorin Oakenshield. She does not even know of the line of Durin or of Hobbits and other creatures. She was born into poverty and only wished to escape it.”

“So it is money that she wishes?” he turned to you, eyes blazing like ice set on fire but it has yet to melt. “She does not even know who she intended to kill.” He almost seemed amused but there was no humor in his tone. You returned his gaze with barely hidden dread in your eyes.

“She is trying to gain your trust as well as the others’. Will you not try and accept her offer?” the Wizard waited intently for the king’s reply. But he seemed to be musing over a thought or other. At last, he turned and said: “She will be yet a burden—another mouth to feed, another to look after. Prove to me that her presence will not be a waste of our time and provisions.”

“Only she can be the one to prove herself to you, I do not know how but when she has earned your trust as well as the others I have given her the right and the decision to leave and no longer be in your presence,” he said.

Thorin sighed deeply and noticed that the Company has been watching them but they have yet to know what they speak of. “I shall inform the others,” the king said then lowered his voice; “But if our attempt to take back the Mountain succeeds and she is still in our company she has no reward but her freedom and her life.”

It took Gandalf a moment before he reluctantly nodded and said: “Agreed.”

¯

You watched Gandalf persuade Thorin to let you in the Company and more importantly keep your life. You owe the Wizard for this. He was the only one so far to show kindness to you and you now appreciate him. Soon after the conversation—which seemed more like an argument—a Dwarf approached. You don’t recall seeing him, or perhaps you have just forgotten. He was bald and his head and arms were tattooed and you see some runes which you could not understand. Twin axes hung from his belt and surely you would not want to antagonize him and this was based on his appearance alone.

He reluctantly cut the bonds on your feet and gave you a huff. Clearly, he was not so pleased with your presence and had the look of annoyance in his eye. He stood above you with his arms folded across his chest. He was waiting for you to get up. _I will stand when I feel like it_ , you wanted to say in his face. But that would just lead you astray from earning any of their trust and with that being the only way of escaping them _alive_ , you complied and stood. He was shorter than you deemed while sitting. Well, _tall_ for a dwarf. You’re the short one. Grabbing your forearm behind you, he walked you over to the Company where they had begun to to pile branches and wood to make a bonfire.

They all had averted their gaze on you and proceeded with making dinner and laying out their bedrolls when the sun slowly crept away from the sky, leaving crimson and auburn and gold in its place, preparing for the coming moon and the dark night to come.

The Dwarf that had cut your bonds earlier came and said to you: “You best be no burden, if you expect us to prepare your bedroll for you, you’re mistaken.” He tone was harsh, but you had no reason to blame him. _I don’t have one._ Oh, how you wanted to say that and show a look of complete sarcasm to seal it. But of course you could not.

“The thought never crossed my mind, Master Dwarf.” You at least tried to sound polite and he freed you from your bonds allowing them to drop on the ground slightly crimson with your blood.

“Don’t even try and run—even while we sleep,” he said and stepped back. “There will be some guarding the night.”

“I have no intention of escaping.” If you did, you would be considered dead or their breakfast if Dwarves had a taste for it. You rubbed you wrists, they had streaks of red and burned at the touch. You thought athelas and some herbs would heal it, only if you were given the chance to find some.

You were lost in thought once more, deeply regretting the attempt of even coming here to kill some Dwarf King who you never knew. You tried to ignore those tedious thoughts and looked to your wrists and just mused at the dark crimson burns. You soon hear faint footsteps headed your way and you slightly look up at the curly haired Halfling with one or two blankets. The other Dwarf had gone; perhaps he left a while ago while you contemplated.

“I noticed you didn’t have a bedroll,” he said, his voice sweet and the corner of your lips twitched into a small smile. He handed you the blankets and continued; “It’s not technically one however it is better than nothing.” You immediately found the Halfling endearing, with his vest and all and you thank him. But you hang your head when your smile dies down.

“It’s alright,” he said making you look to him once more, “Thorin wasn’t always nice to me either. It took a very long while before he could warm up to the fact that I am also part of this venture and worth more than I seem.”

You just wanted to pick him up and squeeze him, but of course that would be uncouth of you. Instead, you give him a grin and say softly: “I’m just afraid he would not warm up to me until the journey’s end or perhaps even beyond that and I am forced to feel his stubbornness every time his stares at me.”

The Halfling lowered his voice, fearful that the king would hear him. “Then you would experience the wrath of Thorin Oakenshield for longer.” He chuckled and you managed the same but only for a short time.

“Mister Baggins!” You hear someone yell and you both turn to whoever called him, only to find that it was the king himself. The hobbit turned to you, waved his momentary leave, and approached Thorin who spoke to him but you could not hear what about. You could only insinuate some parts of what he said: “Go help...out in the...swiftly.” When the hobbit left the Dwarf King turned to you. His steely gaze burning you like it always had.

 _I bet he was born with that frown on his face_ , you thought and unconsciously smiled at the notion. Realizing you have been staring back at Thorin and then smiling for no purpose made your insides stir. You gulped past the lump in your throat and turned away, thinking of where to put your makeshift bedroll and trying your very best to ignore his eyes scorching its way through your neck.

You decided to lay your bedroll near a great stone that would shelter you from raging winds but only those that come from the West. You lay the longer blanket on the ground and folded the other for a cushion. You are not far from the camp or the dwarves and you don’t really feel like being around them for the time being, especially that stubborn one—the _most_ stubborn one.

 _You feel something for Thorin, don’t you?_ Your subconscious is disturbing you again, unlike it never does.

“I do not.” you murmured to yourself unconsciously, shaking your head and wondering why you began talking to yourself. _Liar..._

“Shut up.” There you go again. Why are you talking to yourself? Of course, you continue to disregard the fact that you conversed with yourself and lay down, wrapping the excess of the blanket below you around yourself.

You watched as most of the dwarves and the hobbit curled up in their bedrolls and began to drift off into slumber—and they were honestly noisy in slumber like they are in waking; that is, of course, your personal opinion. Two dwarves were left awake. One had a great white beard and his garb was somewhat crimson; you could not distinguish anything else because of the distance but you can clearly tell the other was Thorin, his raven black hair and the rivers of silver in his hair—which you could not see but recall them clearly and the blue in his eyes, you could never forget that. The fire was put out but you did not need that to see his face, the waning moon gave a pale light that illuminated his features. You couldn’t admit it but you were staring even if he wasn’t even looking at you. He seemed to be conversing with the older one, but then he stopped and looked around. You feared that he heard something and that danger is not far behind—with you on the farthest side, you just might be the first to be killed. But, no; he continued peering around then he stopped.

He looked toward you.

You could not his his expression or feel the intensity of his stare but something in his piercing look made you shudder. Not like it has never done so before but this time it was different. Like he was worried you were not around and looked for you.

You realize you’ve been staring at him for quite a while and turn over, facing the great stone. Sleep could not take you and you’ve just been staring at the stone wondering arbitrary thoughts. You lie on your back and turn towards the sky. The night had been embellished with thousands of stars glaring back at you. And you turn back to the rock, when you’ve realized that the dark blue sky had just reminded you of his eyes.


	3. Sincere Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You longed the feel of his lips on yours and savored each breath that was drawn out from him as if you’ve forgotten all the ache he brought to you. But it was only for a moment until he immediately drew back, and you were drawn out from your odd fantasy.

The pale light of the dawn shone against your face, kissing your eyelids softly and your eyes flutter open to greet the first light of day. You roll over to your side to see that the most of the Dwarves have not yet awoken so you turn back and bury yourself beneath the blanket to get a few more minutes of sleep. The cool wind brushed against your hair, singing its eternal song of—

“Get up.”

You need not turn over to know that the king himself has bid you a _good morning_ of his own.

 _It is too early for this_. Perhaps, if you do not move he will deem you _dead_ and walk away.

“Did you _not_ hear me? I said: _Get up_.”

Or _not_.

In attempt to wake you, he leaned forward and unkindly nudged your shoulder. He was clearly not aware of your state of consciousness and for your own amusement, you rolled over and fluttered your eyes open as if you had just awoken. The tips of his hair slightly brushed against your face and you could undoubtedly hear his breathing and feel the warmth of it in the air. His eyes sparked as they met yours like ice set ablaze; you longed the feel of his lips on yours and savored each breath that was drawn out from him as if you’ve forgotten all the ache he brought to you. But it was only for a moment until he immediately drew back, and you were drawn out from your odd fantasy.

You’ve never been so close to his face before—and you’ve just become aware of the scars on it after escaping your fantasy. They are fresh; you deemed they are only a few days old and wonder why you’ve never noticed them before.

Setting the thought aside, you ask: “Why the urgency?”

He did not answer, _of course._ You soon realize that he was awaiting you to _get up_. Wanting to know the cause without having to strain yourself by being rebellious, you do as he says, craning your neck when you faced him.

At length he spoke, “An orc pack had been hunting us down and we are moving further east, away from the mountains and into the woodlands, to set up another camp or to find a place where we can take refuge. If we are fortunate enough, we will not be confronted. Don’t expect us to wait if you fall behind.” He turned to walk back to the others.

“They were the ones who did this to you, were they not?”

He stopped and no longer turned to meet your eyes. “That is none of _your_ concern.”

The feeling of rebelliousness soon returned. “Seeing that my task is to care for the wounded, it _is_ a concern of mine.”

“How then can you fulfill your task if it is yourself who is wounded? I doubt you can fend for your life when it is required. You wouldn’t last a _minute_ in battle.”

“How would you make such a notion when you have not even seen me shoot my...” recalling that they have taken your bow and quiver, you sigh exasperatedly. You open your mouth to demand for its return but Thorin had left.

You huff at his conception whilst you turn to pick up the blankets you left on the ground.

You’ve had _lots_ of battles. But none of which involve combat, unless _showing off_ to the opponent with your great precision in archery is considered a combat technique then, yes. You’ve _fought_ and _won_ lots, so to say.

Folding the blankets and holding them near your chest, you realize you have nowhere to keep them. Immediately, you peer around for the hobbit. Since he gave you these, he may still have room in his luggage to carry them or know someone who would.

When he was in your sight, you approached him with a gentle smile across your face. He turned from stuffing his belongings down a bag that rested on his side and had a strap along his chest and returned your smile. “I’m sorry, I never got your name.” he said shyly, you were about to ask the same thing, so far all you know about his name is _Baggins_.

You kept your introduction short and bowed your head slightly afterwards. He returned the bow after saying that his name was Bilbo Baggins then gestured towards the blankets.

“Ah, yes,” you say; “thank you again for these however I have no bag to carry them in. I was wondering if you had room in yours to put these inside, only if you don’t mind, of course.”

“Oh, I would love to,” he said with a hearty laugh and placed his hands inside his vest’s pockets. “But I am afraid mine is full. Perhaps, you could ask Bofur. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” He freed a hand and gestured to a dwarf wearing a rather large hat not far behind you. He seemed to be chatting with a younger looking dwarf with dark hair while they packed their belongings.

Your eyes widened and a smile tugged at the ends of your lips. The dark haired one carried _two_ bows with him, one larger and hung around his back, the other he held as he laughed with Bofur. Quickly, you turn to Bilbo and say: “Thank you, very much, Mister Baggins,” and he replies by simply returning the thanks. You turn on your heel and stride toward the two dwarves with the blankets in hand.

They immediately take notice of your presence. “Why, hello there, lassie,” said the one in with the hat with a broad smile. “Bofur, pleased to meet ya.” You were surprised at his kindness towards you, perhaps it has slipped his mind that you were referred to as some sort of _bounty_ _hunter_.

“Kili,” said the other with grin just as wide and a wink. “Pleased to meet you too.” You gave a lighthearted smile and introduced yourself, slightly inclining your head after.

A moment’s look at Kili, it suddenly occurred to you that he was the one you had thought to be Thorin in the previous day, the one you had almost shot. “Oh,” the smile that you had faded and you gulp past the lump in your throat while you dejectedly avert his gaze.

“Is something wrong?” Kili immediately asked, worry in his tone.

“Nothing, I am just incredibly sorry, Kili” you said looking up at him.

“There’s no need to be sorry, miss.”

“But I _did_ unintentionally try and shoot you...” your voice trailed off.

“Well, I am still here, aren’t I?” he gave a heartfelt smile and an eager laugh. A small chuckle escaped your lips and you apologize once more. You pulled him in for an embrace, his head slightly buried in your hair. You pull away, your cheek faintly brushing against the tip of his nose. Another apology escapes your mouth and he smiles it off.

“Pardon the interruption, lassie,” Bofur said and gestured toward the blankets in your arm, “but what are those for?”

“Oh,” you said. “I’ve almost forgotten. I have no bag to place them in, and I wondered if you had enough room in yours to put it in, if you don’t mind.”

“But of course, lassie!” Bofur said, “Those are the spare ones, are they not?”

“I guess so.”

His cheerful grin never seemed to fade. “Oh! Those belong with _Gloin_ then, lassie. Hand them over, I’ll bring it over to him—I bet Bilbo got them for you, aye?”

You gladly handed them over to Bofur with a smile. “Yes, and thank you so much,” you gave Bofur an embrace then after parting, turned to Kili for a quick farewell embrace before stepping back and waved them both a momentary goodbye whilst you strode toward Bilbo.

“Alright,” said Bilbo when he laid his eyes on you; “h- _how’d_ you do that?”

“Do what?” you asked with a smile forming on your face.

“ _That_.” He gestured to the bow that hung behind your back. “Thorin made him guard that for a reason and...you just... _have_ it now.” The hobbit was at a loss for words.

You chuckled lowly. “It wasn’t quite hard when I noticed that they were so nice, I honestly expected them to be somewhat harsh _nevertheless_ I am overjoyed at their kindness...also because it gave me an opportunity.”

“To take your bow back?”

“Exactly,” you continued. “It was hanging off his back with the string slanted over chest. I quickly thought of how I was to pull it over his face and considered that embracing him would be a fair option. Then I just needed a reason _why_. As soon as that came into view I immediately embraced him the next chance I had. And when I parted, swiftly and cautiously I lifted the bowstring over his face and luckily he did not notice.”

“You slipped it _over_ his face?” he gave a smile of amusement.

With a short laugh you nodded. “Yes, it was quite risky but I managed. I had pressed the string near my hair and brushed my cheek against his nose and slipped it over as I did and I placed it over his other shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice since I kept his eyes fixed on me. And when I embraced him the second time, I merely slipped my hand through and placed it on my shoulder like it never left my side. To do that in a few minutes wasn’t quite difficult but if they had loathed me it would have been much more difficult.”

“Hold on, didn’t _Bofur_ see?”

“Oh, he _did_.” You laughed faintly. “When I embraced him before I left I told him I owe him a favor for this—in hushed voices, for sure. All he replied was: “It’s easier to keep things from the lad than from Thorin. Don’t you worry, lassie, I’ll not interfere at all. Kili will just have to notice it’s gone and tell his uncle about it, aye?” If I recall correctly. He smiled then I muttered a thank you in his ear and parted.”

“You’re _quite_ the burglar, and that’s a complement by all means,” he chuckled, lowering his tone. “Well, they did make _me_ the burglar in this company—which I thought was a huge _mistake_ since I have never stolen a thing in my life. But, I’m still here and _still_ their burglar.” He paused. “Maybe, _you_ could teach me a thing or two if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all, Mister Baggins,” It was the least you could do for all the help he gave you. But the thought of an endearing hobbit such as Bilbo being the official burglar in the company fills you with doubt. A part of you feels that it is best left alone, while the other demands an explanation.

A moment later you add: “But it’s best that I find my quiver first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Though, I _did_ promise Thorin that I wouldn’t tell you where it is or who is keeping it, sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mister Baggins, I can’t keep you from your word,” your gaze turns to the bald dwarf whom you’ve encountered before, and to the king he is conversing with; there is a great distance between. “I think I may have an idea, and I _do_ admit this would prove more difficult.”

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Several moments later, the company is set on moving due east. Gandalf had approached the hobbit and asked where you were. Of course, he wouldn’t lie to the Wizard and told him that you were in search of your quiver. Amused, Gandalf just laughed silently at the notion and was compelled as to how it would turn out for you.

“Move! All of you!” Thorin yelled whilst he beckoned the company to quicken movements. “We’re wasting our time here, we must move quickly!”

At that instant everyone had tightened the last strap of their bags across their chests or rushed behind or by Thorin’s side, some had disposed of last of the burnt wood, others had just kept their weapons in check before rushing off and falling behind Thorin. You had kindly helped a white haired dwarf with a long beard with his belongings—seeing that you carried only your bow—and you  were behind a dwarf with hair that spiked three ways (he didn’t seem to mind you) and you walked next to the kind hobbit. Very soon the Company set off. And you still have no idea where the venture led to—other than _to the East_ as Thorin said.

For an unknown reason no one spoke or even muttered amongst themselves. The silence was piercing only to be broken by tumbling stones or the clanking of metal from weapons or the pots and pans that hung outside most rucksacks. But you wanted to ask so much. It was practically inexorable for you to do so. And yet, you spoke not a word.

Thorin’s pace quickened and so followed the rest of you; the stone-hewn path you treaded was precarious in most places but also had a great deal of solid ground where grass and a many other foliage grew; it was barely even a league when you’ve seen the moss shroud most of the stones—a body of water was nearby, you are sure of it.

You look up and see the dwarf king, only four dwarves stood in between. His effort to bring you all to an unknown safer place of refuge was ineffable. No wonder he is greatly respected by the Company he leads. _He_ is _a king after all_. _The heir to the throne of Durin_ , if you recall correctly. You ask yourself: _Why is he not on his throne, leading a vast army, ruling his kingdom or doing whatever else a_ king _does?_ You unconsciously roll your eyes.

 _I thank all of thee for leaving me in the dark_.

What are they not telling you?

Then the grim silence abruptly broke, “Did you manage to retrieve your quiver?” the hobbit asked with a soft voice. He had been tugging the hem of your garb for quite a while, to be honest—your thoughts had clouded your head earlier and you hardly took any notice.

“Ah,” you say with a sigh and your voice barely above a whisper. “Well, _no_ , but I managed to steal two of my arrows. Alas, one has a crooked fletching or should I say one of them is no longer there.” Cautiously you reveal the few arrows you had taken back from the dwarf (whom you’ve heard to be Dwalin) from beneath the luggage you carried for the seemingly elder one. Then you saw your chance to unleash your curiosity and took it gratefully. “Where _does_ this journey end?”

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came instead he drew his blade, bright and gleaming azure. His face struck with terror and his hands shook as he clasped its hilt. Battle cries coalesced with a blood-curdling howls and blades met the flesh of large dark beasts with eyes like coal, sinister and ominous as if you’re staring into a void where the Dark Lord thrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fletching - the feather part of an arrow


	4. Baffled Comprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gazed at its black eyes and saw its large jagged teeth inch toward your face while it caged your body beneath its grasp. You turned your head to your side and saw your arrow, inching your hand towards it. The beast opened its mouth and gnashed its teeth just as the arrow came into your reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh and um there's some violence at the beginning (feel free to tell me if it's too graphic so i can change/edit the tags c:   
> yeah and some hot--- :o spoilers.... well, it's best if you find out on your own *insert hannibal laugh here*

You could feel the blood rush through your veins. Your heart pounds against your chest. Never before have you seen a beast such as this; its dark eyes ever watchful of your movements. Your eyes search for the others, you could hear your throb, Thorin had slain two beasts and you could not even breathe and fight one. You held an arrow in your hand and fitted it to the string. Your hands throbbed and shook and sweat rolled off your face.

A blood-curdling snarl came from behind you making your body tremble. Before you could turn and face the beast, it swiped your bow and arrow from your hands, your body pummeled to the ground. Its weight was agonizing, and its claw pierced through the fabric of your shirt then your skin. You gazed at its black eyes and saw its large jagged teeth inch toward your face while it caged your body beneath its grasp. You turned your head to your side and saw your arrow, inching your hand towards it. The beast opened its mouth and gnashed its teeth just as the arrow came into your reach. It lunged forward just as you force the arrow through its lower and upper jaw. The beast grew limp above you and its claws sank further in your skin as it fell atop you. Gritting your teeth to suppress the pain, you attempt to push the beast off you. Some dwarves came to assist you but to no avail. You suffered beneath the increased weight of the lifeless beast. You drag yourself out of its claw and weight but the sharp edges of its claws left dug through your skin and ripped it as you inch further away leaving you drenched in blood and disoriented. As you stand, you pick up your bow and the crooked arrow which remained. It was soaked in blood—the beast’s or your own, you did not know.  

Your vision was slightly blurred but you know what you see: Thorin had slain yet another beast, his blade deep in the beast’s skull and it seemed to be stuck there. You looked around for the others; they were fighting off the rest of the pack. Then your gaze falls to Thorin once more. Your knees become weak and your grip on your bow and arrow loosens but they are still in your hands. You can barely stand. Then you see a speck of blur far behind the king. You question yourself if what you see is a reality. And your vision clears for a brief moment. Thorin’s blade is still stuck in the beast’s skull and what is behind him is clearly another. It was silent and saw Thorin as its prey. Dark eyes mirrored its lust for blood. With weak hands you clutch onto your bow and fit the crooked arrow to the string. You had no time to look for Dwalin for the rest of your arrows; Thorin is going to die. You shut your eyes and opened them hoping that your vision would clear even just for an instant. Your heart is still pumping against your chest and your hands weak and a throbbing pain stung throughout your body but you breathed, trying to calm yourself down. You shut your eyes again and opened. And the beast charged. Your vision cleared for a single instance and you aimed higher than you would before releasing the arrow. You fell.

The ground came in contact with your aching body and your hands and feet grew weaker than before. You breathed, slowly and your blurred vision searched for Thorin. He was there, crawling up from underneath a beast with an arrow wedged in between its eyes.

Darkness comes over you.

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You shot yourself up, breathing heavily, reaching for your chest to feel your heart beat. The racing pulses seemed to calm you, remind you that you’re still alive but in pain. You grit your teeth to contain the agony. It was nothing like you’ve ever experienced. _A little pain will not render me weak_ , you tell yourself but seeing that you were almost shredded by a large wolf-like beast, this is far from a _little_ pain.

You realize that you’re covered in bandages—all saturated with blood—from the waist up and around your wrists, and you see your shirt beside you, laying on a rock. It was torn and crimson. A few days ago it was a pale blue.

You were ill at ease when the thought of someone removing your shirt—they were all _men_ for gods’ sake. But there is no time to fret for that now.

 _Where are they?_ You hear nothing but the water quaking and the trees rustling against the wind’s song. Looking around, you find that this is land is unfamiliar to you. The air was cooler and you took a deep breath. You were laid in a patch of grass near a small pond where the water rippled against the wind. Large and smaller stones encircled the area, many glistened cobalt and mauve in the pale light of the dawning sun and a myriad of sweet-smelling Lissuin grew. The fragrance of it brought your heart at ease; surely this was the place Thorin wished to bring all of you.

 _Thorin_ , you mutter his name unconsciously. Last time you saw him he crawled out from beneath a beast. Then something festers inside of you: a worry for his wellbeing. Why would you give a damn about _that_? All he has been is an ache; a pain that refuses to go away. You groan. All this has just been making you think of him more—and making your worry grow.

You hear a rustle behind tall stones and turn your head towards the noise. Believing that it was one of the dwarves to check on you did not put you at ease—fear still lingered at the back of your mind and you habitually search for your bow which was _not_ there. Taken again, you suppose, not surprised by the notion. Then out from behind the stones one does comes through. Grey haired with some rivers of black and he held a small leather pack and a trumpet of some sort. With trembling hands you struggle to lift yourself up.

“Don’t strain yourself, lassie,” he moves closer and puts the pack on the ground beside you soon kneeling beside it. “Oin,” he says and bows his head slightly; you say your name and do the same. “You lost a lot of blood. The lad was worried sick. Well, you _can’t_ tell from his face but I bet he was worried.”

“ _Thorin_?” you asked; your voice softer than you thought.

“Thorns?” he said holding an end of his trumpet against his ear. “No, there are no thorns in you. Last I checked at least.”

 _Yes, it was probably the grumpy troll._ You chuckled silently, slightly peering into his pack and seeing a variety of bottles filled with herbs and spices, some you have yet encountered. He brought out a slim one and took a root out from it. “Burdock root?” you wondered aloud. It is somewhat of a blood-purifier and reduces blood clotting. And it has been long since you’ve used it.

“Aye,” he gave a smile and handed it over to you. Gratefully, you took it in your hand and gnawed at the root. “Thank you, Oin,” you say inclining your head as you chew.

“Ah, don’t mention it, lassie.” He kept the pack, held it in his arm and stood up with a groan, his trumpet still against his ear. “Now, if you excuse me, I still need to tend to the others.”

“May I be of assistance? Surely, I am capable of doing so.” You put down the root.

“I’m fine, lass, go ahead and rest. Don’t want you passing out again.” He turned to leave and you immediately lift yourself up but your arms are still weak. You groan in frustration and attempt to stand once more. Strained and weak but you’re standing up. Making your way in front of Oin, you blocked his path. “I insist.” You say, glaring at him. _This_ is why Gandalf decided to keep you around, you should at least stand by it.

A moment passes and he moans in defeat. “Fine, but _I’ll_ tend to _most_ of them. You’re injured too, you know.” He handed you a few bandages and a cloth that were stuffed in a pouch on his belt. They were tattered but would serve just as well. “If you start to feel dizzy, let me know.”

You nod and thank him, rushing back to the patch of grass and picked up your torn, blood-stained shirt from the stone. What else would you wear then? You cannot expect a pile of fresh clothing will fall into your hands. Sighing, you wear the shirt over your bandages. Your blood reeked. No wonder they had secluded you.

Turning you see that Oin was no longer there, you walk through the opening, trying your best to retain your balance as your head spins for a brief moment. Of course, you would inform Oin about that brief dizziness _later_. You’ve just started. The crowd of dwarves rubbed their soar limbs or wiped off dry blood from their weapons. Bilbo was nowhere to be seen; this worried you. Perhaps, he is speaking with Gandalf, who you could not locate at the moment either. The path was narrow and bordered by tall walls of stone and you spotted a thick forest not far. Far from where the forest began you see Oin tending to a red-haired dwarf and conversing in a language foreign to you.

You first tend to a dwarf you’ve seen speaking with Thorin before since he was the nearest one. He said his name was Balin. While you tended to the gashes on his arm he began to tell you tales of the Dwarves out of his own amusement and you gladly listened. He spoke of many battles won and lost; the battle between the Elves and how it began. To think that it was all because of greed and a necklace. Some filled you with delight but others you basked in silence. You wondered why he never spoke of Thorin, only mentioning his grandfather a few times.

He looked passed you and gave a dispirited sigh. You wrap a bandage around his arm and tighten it then turn your head to where he looked and saw the king at the farthest end sitting on a rock against a great wall of stone and rubbing his head with his fingers. Very small rivers of water flowed from the uneven wall and gathered in concaved areas.

“Maybe you should tend to him next,” he said, you turned to find him looking at you, worry evident in his face. Of course, you thought that it was inevitable for him to say that and nodded with a halfhearted smile. You stand up incline your head and walk over to Thorin; your smile quickly faded yet another tugged at the edge of your lips.

Regarding your presence, he looked up. “I’m fine,” he says averting his gaze, “Go worry about the others.”

 _Alright, so says the king_. “As much as I would _want_ to, I cannot,” you say moving to where he would see you and your smug expression. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint Balin.” He drew a deep breath and leaned back, making a hand gesture which you read as: proceed.

You took the cloth Oin gave you and soaked it in the pooling water in the hollowed rock of the wall. He curiously eyed you whilst you leaned forward and traced the slashes on his face with the folded end of the wet cloth.

“Those were already treated,” he said.

You slightly nod your head in reply. But you never really heard what he said and lost yourself in warmth of his breath again, unaware that you held yours. You traced the cloth down his cheek to his neck unwittingly leaving your hand on it whilst you met his eyes. You wouldn’t admit that you missed being this close to him. You tried to tell yourself that you didn’t but you wanted to kiss him.  The thought of rejection pained you. Giving a short breath, you drew back, hiding your eyes and your dilated pupils. He seemed to be shaken for a moment but then his expression grew vague.

“What happened—earlier?” you asked in attempt to change the subject. “When we were attacked by those—”

“Warg scouts,” he said. “This happened yesterday. Eventually, we escaped and I— _we_ carried you and tended to your wounds here when we came across it not long ago. Although, we believe that the orc pack hunting us is not far behind. Mister Baggins is looking into that.”

“Bilbo?” your gaze fell back onto him and immediately your pupils contracted. You raised a skeptical eyebrow, but his expression remained unclear. “Is that not a dangerous task?”

“He’ll be fine.”

You didn’t want to talk about this absurdity any longer and so you sighed and gripped the cloth in your hand. “You still have other gashes, do you not?” you ask and he nodded. He stood and took off his fur coat followed by his belt then armor. _Right,_ You averted your eyes to keep your heart from racing and for him not to notice the flush of colour in your cheeks. When you felt as if you’ve controlled the maddening red in your cheeks you turned to him only to find that your face flushed once again. His back leaned against the cold stone and you found yourself staring at his well toned upper body. You can see his chest rising and falling as he breathes. You managed to keep a straight face while you brought the wet cloth up to trace the large gashes, soaking the dry blood and grit. The cloth ran across his chest then down his abdomen. Your other hand ran through his skin and rested on his shoulder to steady him but he was perfectly still, you were the one trembling.

He took hold of your shaking hand and brought it up, tightening your grip on the cloth. A heat builds in between your legs. Thorin leans forward, his beard brushing against your flushed cheek and the arousal between your legs grow. “You should rest,” he whispers softly in your ear. You nearly moan at the sound of his voice.

He drew back, loosened his grip on your hand and it fell idly to your side, while the other refused to part with the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. He turned away, allowing your hand to fall, and clothed himself.

You admit that you miss being close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah um so Lissuin is a flower which smells really great. Some of these were brought by the Elves to Númenor for the adornment of a feast following Aldarion and Erendis's wedding. (via Wikipedia)  
> It was not stated where it grew exactly. And i don't own it at all, swear.


	5. Blissful Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never understood how love worked. Why one could fall into it. All your life, you saw how it would always end in agony. But now you yearn for it—for him. Like all those years of pain were worth nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh and in the book most places Thorin and Co. went to they stayed longer than in the movie so don't be shocked when they stay in one place longer than expected heh..  
> not too long, of course. maybe like a day or so. but that's in the future chapters!  
> 

Your heart is racing again. Beating hard against you like it would soon burst. You pound your fist against your chest attempt to make it stop. Not like that would work. Thoughts of him flooded your mind, thoughts filled with lust and desire that just made your heart beat faster. You’ve never felt this way before and it is killing you, gnawing at your entrails making you want to spill your heart, making you weak whenever you stand near him.

 _Maybe, you’re in love with him_.

_No, don’t be absurd._

You never understood how love worked. Why one could fall into it. All your life, you saw how it would always end in agony. But now you yearn for it—for him. Like all those years of pain were worth nothing.

 _I am not in love with him._ _I have no reason to be_.

_What makes you so sure?_

“You alright, lass?” Bofur asked; his face stained with worry as he looked up at you, and your string of thoughts crumbled. Believing that he saw you pounding your fist against your chest, you attempt a smile of reassurance but it became one of anguish and frustration.

“Yes, Bofur,” you cleared your throat. “A pain in my chest is all. No need to fret.” It was not entirely a lie. There _is_ a pain in your chest, and he is a king.

Uncertainty scarred his face. “We better get a move on,” you stammered and looked on to the gathering crowd of dwarves with a distinctive Wizard among them. Your gaze fell onto the concerned dwarf before you and a smile twitched at the ends of your lips whilst you softened your tone. “I am fine, Bofur. It is just an ache. It will soon pass, I am sure of it.”

Returning the smile, he accompanied you into the circle of dwarves (and a Wizard) however still doubtful of your words.

The crowd was unusually silent and you glanced at a narrow path leading up the cliff side before meeting the icy blue gaze of the king. The ache returned rendering your chest feeble and each breath you took shattered your lungs. Grimly, you looked away and the pain seemed to diminish eventually. Looking to the Wizard, you ask: “What are we waiting for exactly?”

“News, my dear,” he said with a small grin on his face but not one of amusement. “We fear that the orc pack is drawing near.”

“And I guess we will be hearing the news from Bilbo when he returns, am I correct?”

Gandalf nodded his head and at the same time a loud bellowing roar echoed off the rocks. All eyes widened with shock and the wizard looked up; there a hobbit scurried down the narrow path as he breathed heavily.

Thorin and Dwalin peered through the path. “How close is the pack?” Thorin asked, stern with no evident fear in his voice.

“Too close, a couple of leagues no more.” he said trotting past Thorin and entering the circle of dwarves. “But that’s not the worst of it.” he struggled to catch his breath as he stopped at the center. All eyes were on him.

“The wargs picked up our scent?” asked Dwalin.

“Not yet but they will do.” The crowd closed in on him, his face was pouring with sweat; “We have another problem.”

“Did they see you?” asked Gandalf fretfully and the hobbit turned towards him. “They saw you?”

“No, that’s not it,” he shifted his weight uneasily whilst he still tried to catch his breath.

The Wizard nodded and a smile played on his face. “What did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse.” The dwarves clamored with merriment with wide grins marked on their faces (well, not all of them). “Excellent burglar material.” He added.

“Will you listen?” the hobbit spun anxiously. “Will you _just_ listen?” The clamoring ceased and attention was towards Bilbo once more. “I am trying to tell you there is something else out there.” The hobbit pointed up the path and for the first time you saw Thorin give a deep sigh of frustration and worry.

“What form did it take?” Gandalf asked; you looked up to him with a furrowed brow. “Like a bear?”

Bilbo stammered and his look of worry became one of skepticism and the dwarves shot gazes at the Wizard. “Yes, but bigger—much bigger.”

“You knew about this beast?” Bofur asked clutching onto his axe. You looked to Gandalf with such nervousness before he turned away. “I say we double back.”

“We’ll be run down by a pack of orcs.” Thorin said and you shot a gaze at him.

 _What is going on?!_   

The clamoring began; fret and anxiety filled the air. Just to be silenced by Gandalf’s voice: “There is a house.” He turned to see questioning and doubtful faces. “Not far from here where we _might_ take refuge.”

“Whose house?” Thorin asked his voice ever unyielding. “Are they friend or foe?”

Gandalf opened his mouth to speak and a moment of hesitation took him before saying: “Neither. He will help us _or_ he will kill us.”

Glances shot from the Wizard to the king and back, awaiting their responses.

“What choice do we have?”

The horrific roar thundered louder and all eyes shot up the path fearing what this thing is.

“None.”

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You ran. You ran until your feet grew numb. Until you could feel your pulse through your head and sweat poured off your face to stain your crimson shirt. There is no stopping now, unless you wish to be slaughtered by an orc pack or whatever creature that awaits you. Hearing the snarls and grotesque hollers of the orcs and wargs made your skin crawl.

Then the roar thundered through the woods making you all halt. The piercing noise was like shattered glass passing through your ears making them bleed.  

“This way!” called Gandalf in an agitated tone. “Quickly!”

Running once again, everyone sped their pace knowing that a bloodthirsty beast is nearing. A house soon came into view just beyond the woodland. Fear struck you all, powering your legs to run even if they were on the brink of collapsing. Even the rather large dwarf outran most.

You could go deaf from the intensity of the roars that beset your ears and it just continued to grow louder. Soon you ran through an open door, entering some sort of small wood but that was not the end of it. The dwarves up front crashed into another door, then banging against it. You hear the sound of trees breaking effortlessly from behind, ignoring the booming roars that you grew sick of hearing.

“Open the door!” Gandalf cried and the others continued to forcefully bang on it.

“Quickly!” Thorin yelled, and rushed past the gathered dwarves to lift the latch just above their heads and all pushed each other inside with clamorous screams of terror once the doors swung open. Once all were inside most pushed the doors shut but a large head of a bear wedged in between. Its teeth like daggers, its face scarred and it was black as the night. The beast snarled and the dwarves forced the door shut but the bear proved stronger. The hobbit drew his blade and held it with shaking hands.

Finally, they drew the door shut and the latch sealed it. With deep sighs of relief and heavy breathes they slowly move away from the door.

“What is that?” asked a dwarf in mittens and a knitted cardigan, out of breath and frightened.

“That is our host.” Gandalf replied with utter surety, earning disbelieving grimaces from the dwarves, yourself, and the hobbit. The Wizard seemed to be amused by the gestures and a smile washed on his face as he returned the gazes. “His name is Beorin and he’s a skinchanger,” he began to walk away and toward some assortment of animals. “Sometimes he’s a huge black bear, sometimes he’s a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable but the man can be reasoned with.”

Turning around, you find that some of the dwarves have ventured off into the dining room. “However,” Gandalf added; making you turn and face him once more. “He is not over fond of dwarves.” Oin and the red-haired dwarf glared intently at the Wizard, and most seemed offended, some rather frightened mostly because of the thought that a large bear would not think twice before slaughtering them.

“He’s leaving,” muttered the dwarf in the mittens as he pressed against the door.

“Come away from there!” another pulled him from the door. “It’s not natural, not of it.” he turned to the Wizard. “It’s obvious; he’s under some dark spell.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he passed and stopped in front of the dwarf. “He’s under no enchantment but his own.” Taking off his large hat he walked past the dwarf and looked at you and saw your weary eyes. “Now, get some sleep all of you.” he added. “You’ll be safe here tonight.”

Sitting yourself on the ground you groaned in relief and shut your eyes. _Rest, finally._ Vaguely hearing what Gandalf had muttered after. But you did hear someone say: “Please, I am obviously a better archer than she is.”

 _Kili_... you’re tempted to spring up and prove him wrong. But then rest does sound nice right about now. And you don’t have your bow and quiver—something tells you that a stubborn dwarf king has it.

“Nah, I bet she’ll whoop your behind,” laughed another. You like him already. “But she ain’t a better swordsman than I am, that’s for sure.” And now you’re rethinking your previous statement. In all honesty, you are _horrible_ at swords. You can’t even lift one. But don’t be hard on yourself; the last time you picked up a sword was when you turned twelve—same age you learned how to shoot an arrow.  You opened your eyes and managed a sly smile when you saw the black-haired archer sitting next to the blond swordsman. They were brothers, no doubt.

“Perhaps you should show me a thing or two then.” You say and their amused gazes fell on you.

“Alright then,” laughed the blond one. “Fili, by the way. And I know who you are,” he added. “Kili won’t shut up about you.”

His face colouring and his smile widening, Kili nudged his brother against his shoulder and he merely laughed and muttered “What? It’s true.”

Momentarily struggling to stand, you say: “Just the basics,” and brush off the hay that latched on to your pants. “I’ll work out the rest next time. Hope the _king_ doesn’t mind, though.”

“We do things like this all the time,” he walked toward you and unsheathed one of his blades. “I’m sure uncle wouldn’t mind at all."

 _Uncle..._ _these are his nephews then_. The thought of uncle Thorin amused you. How he would have to deal with two rowdy nephews is beyond you. Holding the hilt of Fili’s blade, you lift it up and immediately feel the weight of it—which was not at all overwhelming but surprisingly heavy in hand.

“When do we start?” you ask whilst you admired the workmanship of the blade.

“Now,” he swung his blade near your neck but you drew yours to block it, the sound of metal clashing as you lunge your sword to bring his down.

“Is it not wise to teach me before you test my skills?” you ask while he drew back his blade and you lifted yours, hands tightly wound against the hilt.

“I’m just looking at what I have to work with,” he gave a wide grin. “You’re fast though, if you hadn’t blocked I would have cut off your head.”

“Ah, no I _didn’t_ realize.” You utter sarcastically and roll your eyes.

“Your stance,” he swung his sword at your legs and you leap back, your feet falling firmly on the ground far from one another and your knees slightly bent. “Good,” he drew another blade making you groan.

“That’s unfair.” You utter. He grins in reply and lashes the swords, allowing you split seconds to evade until he knocked you down with a blow to your stomach from his elbow.

“You alright?”

“ _Great_.” You moan and stand up, your hand still wrapped tightly against the hilt. The bandages you still wore proved a fair sort of mail—but not a great one.

“Not all fights are fair ones.”

Spinning and swinging your sword against his chest, he forced his blade up and the metal clashed. “I am glad I learned that from _you_ and not an orc.” You chuckle lowly and he brings up his sword, lifting yours up in the air but you still had your grasp on it. He swipes his blade near your face and you forcefully bring down your sword and swing it against his like an axe, sending the weapon across the room and clattering as it meets the ground. “Not bad,” he smiles, and spins his remaining blade.

Your gaze catches that of the king who stood near the table and his other nephew.

“Concentrate,” Fili’s voice made you look to him but only seeing a thin line that swooped near your face and immediately you throw your head back, missing the blade by a few inches. “It’s your turn to attack, love.”

 _He didn’t just call me that._ _But, oh, he_ did _._ You threw and slashed your blade against him countless times but he blocked with his own and the steel clashed and scraped against each other. He didn’t even seem like he was trying. You spun and jabbed your elbow against his wrist and the blade rattled to the ground. Breathing heavily you pointed your blade toward his neck. His smile did not reassure you.

A sudden pain in your hand—then your arm—eventually your back, next thing you knew you were on the ground, his Dwarven boot stepping on the flat of the blade whilst you still held it and a dagger brushed lightly against your neck. Looking up you see his unctuous smile.

He drew back and held out a hand to help you up. Gladly, you take it and brush the hay off your clothes. Noticing that most of the company watched you in this somewhat embarrassing experience did not set you at ease.

“You’re alright, for someone with not much experience.” He flashes a grin and you have half a mind to take that as a complement.

“Thank you, I think. But I still prefer my bow,” you turn towards Thorin who you assumed smiled for the most fleeting of moments. “Wherever that may be.”

Then your assumptions were correct for he smiled once more, swiftly and then it faded.

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Helping the dwarves with their bedrolls and where they’re to sleep was one thing—quite easy at that even if some of them still held a small grudge against you, remembering all their names and who the names belonged to, was another—and proved far more confusing. 

Setting the thought aside, you held your makeshift blanket bedroll and attempt to find a spot to sleep.

_I cannot sleep next to Bofur for he is next to Dori who doesn’t trust me and he is beside Ori who is beside Bifur and Gloin, but isn’t Oin next to Nori? Is it? Or is he Dori? Wait. Where’s Ori? Perhaps, Gandalf would not mind. But is he not near Bombur? Is that Bombur?_

There are far more complications than you could imagine. Soon, you think of just harboring outside awaiting certain death by orcs or by the host.

 _I should just stay by Bilbo..._ you turn towards the hobbit and see that his place is near Thorin’s. _Maybe I should sleep outside._

“You can stay by me if you like,” the hobbit kindly said as he laid down his bedroll over the small stack of hay and the king laid down his close by.

Opening your mouth, you reluctantly say: “Of course.” Well, he _offered_. You didn’t want to upset Bilbo in anyway after all he was one of the first to show kindness to you.  Making your way past the slumbering dwarves and a couple of goats, you bend down and lay the blankets to his left—far from Thorin.

“Ah, um,” he said, making you choke for a moment and you stand straight. “That’s Dwalin’s spot. Sorry, but, um, he told me earlier.”

Clearing your throat, you nod and move to the other side of the hobbit and lay your blankets reluctantly between him and Thorin.

“Do you not like it there? It’s alright if you don’t—”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” You forced a smile, and not a large one at that. Nodding, he tucked himself into his bedroll and wished you a goodnight. Wishing him the same, you wrap yourself beneath the blankets and face the hobbit that had his back on you.

As tired as you may be, sleep would not take you. Not like it was ever kind enough to do so. You felt like you just lay there for hours—and you probably did!

Silently you hum the lullaby that your sister sang to you, somnolent as it is. The hobbit stirred and turned over, you fall silent in wonder.

“What song is that?” he asked in a hushed tone, not wanting to wake the rest of the company.

“My sister taught it to me,” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but clearly heard; “It’s about a king, if I recall correctly, telling how joyous all would be when he reclaims his throne. I vaguely remember the tale it’s from.”

Nodding, the hobbit gave into his curiosity and muttered: “Sing it? If you don’t mind, of course.”

You smile at his request and sing it silently:

_The King beneath the mountains,_  
 _The King of carven stone,_  
 _The lord of silver fountains_  
 _Shall come into his own_  
  
 _His crown shall be upholden,_  
 _His harp shall be restrung,_  
 _His halls shall echo golden_  
 _To songs of yore re-sung._  
  
 _The woods shall wave on mountains_  
 _And grass beneath the sun;_  
 _His wealth shall flow in fountains_  
 _And the rivers golden run._  
  
 _The streams shall run in gladness,_  
 _The lakes shall shine and burn,_  
 _All sorrow fail and sadness_  
 _At the Mountain-king's return_

The song ended and you found the hobbit quietly sleeping and turned over. Well, it was a sort of lullaby and you smile at the endearing hobbit. Flipping over, you are reminded that Thorin was still behind you. However it was not all dire. He lay unmoving and looked so peaceful. Slowly, you inch toward him, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. When you saw his eyes gradually open, you shut yours hurriedly and controlled your breathing as if you were asleep.

You hear abrupt movements and feel his hand brushing against your colouring cheek whilst he tucked a stray tress of hair behind your ear. You are tempted to open your eyes just to see his face, risking him catching you awake and aware of the gesture he just made. Giving in, your eyes flutter open to find that he is asleep once more, his hand lay near you and hesitantly you place your own above it and you drift off into slumber, unaware that he was never truly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbXDSTLlZzA - the King Beneath the Mountains sung by Karliene  
> if it sounds sorta familiar that's because Bard recited some of the parts (not in the right order though) hehe  
> i don't own the song c:
> 
> **oh, and yeah, Thorin heard "you" singing. //insert my hannibal laughter here//cough cough//


	6. False Actuality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only light you were given was that of the moon but you cared not. Leaves whistled against the cool breeze, thousands of stars embellished the night sky, and the silence of the world set you at ease. But you were alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay fluff because I promised C:  
> And since this day has some sort of significance to me the angst shall be in the next chapter--which is sorta a good thing. Until you get to the next chapter. I'm sorta sorry.  
> Hope this thing gets better.  
> Oh, and thank you for those great comments! I wasn't sure what to reply because they were so nice!

The darkness shrouds over you like a veil of death. You savor each breath as if your last, breathing in ash and dust with each gasp for air. You bring your hand up into the void and hear your nails claw into the boarded wooden lid that hovered inches above your face and feeling the boards on your sides with your feet. Your other hand raises and you push hard against the lid, scraping the skin off your palms that soon felt wet with blood and burning with pain. You don’t care; you just want to get out.

Once the fair voice of your sister, now taunting and wicked, _“You killed me.”_ it filled your ears repeating itself over and over until all you heard was the sound of yourself screaming out cries of denial and banging against the wooden lid before you grew limp and coughed out ash and blood. This is your grave; death is upon you.

 _“Murderer.”_ The voice echoed through the eternal void that surrounded you, until it was broken by a shard of light seeping through the coffin lid stained with blood and soot.

“Get me out of here!” you scream but no words came.

A body drops onto your coffin, limp and drenched in blood that dripped through the coffin boards. You could barely see the body through the gap between the boards. But you saw his eyes, an unmistakable icy blue that made you choke in your cries and the crooked arrow that pierced his neck.

“Thorin!” You cry but still nothing, until you hear the sound of yourself choking. You burn with pain when your heart sank and you ask yourself desperately who could have killed him, then the wicked voice returned whispering something that made your skin crawl and your voiceless cry shatter the void, _“You did.”_

 

You woke up breathlessly, chest heaving and your gaze fixed on the slumbering dwarf king; you wondered why he didn’t wake from the grip you held on his hand but that matters not. It was just a dream—a horrible one. Loosening your hold, you sit up and look to the hobbit that slept so soundly and to the dwarves. You thanked the gods that you didn’t scream and wake any one of them. 

_“Murderer...”_

The cruel voice returned to your thoughts and you so desperately tried to forget it. Needing to clear your head, you attempt to stand up without making as much noise as possible and creep steadily past the sleeping Company and yes, the goats, toward the dining room illuminated by the incandescent flickering fire of the hearth. Out of mere curiosity, you peer into the stables at your sides, finding horses and oxen of some sort.

Seeing a tall unfamiliar figure suddenly standing near the dining table stopped you in your path. He turned to you and said in a gruff voice: “You are no dwarf.”

The light from the hearth came from behind him, shrouding his face in shadow. He was clearly the _host_ , also the large black bear you saw earlier. Recalling what Gandalf said about the Man being more reasonable somewhat set you at ease. Nodding, you say, “Yes, I am a Man, so to say— _woman_.” Noticing the abrupt silence that came after, you say your name to steer from the inelegance of the situation. “And you are _Beorin_ , if I am correct?”

“Yes,” he says, slightly walking towards you. “May I ask why you are awake at this hour?”

Lying to him would be unwise, you thought. “I woke up from a nightmare. I just thought I needed some air as all.”

A smile played on his face whilst he chuckled lowly, “You may step outside if you wish,” he said. “As long as you’re within the walls I can assure your safety.”

Flashing him a smile, you thank him. For what reason is he showing kindness, you do not know. Taking his offer you attempt to lift the latch, failing sooner than you thought—it was surprisingly heavy. Beorin soon came striding over to your side and lifting the latch with ease and opening the door. You thank him once more and head outside taking in the fresh air that greeted you.

_“You killed me...”_

You cringe at the sound of that voice lingering in your thoughts again, speaking such false words.

Soon, you find yourself sitting on the grass, feeling the earth beneath your fingers and leaning against a thick tree ignoring that horrid voice in your head. The only light you were given was that of the moon but you cared not. Leaves whistled against the cool breeze, thousands of stars embellished the night sky, and the silence of the world set you at ease. But you were alone.

Not like you cared about whether you were alone or not—but you did. It was such a small detail that you found so insignificant since _their_ deaths and yet why are you not overlooking this _now?_

 _Thorin_.

Of course you wanted him here beside you; and yet you’re still denying that you feel something for him. Stubbornness is a trait you both share then. Unconsciously, you chuckle then mutter, hanging your head, “He’s the stubborn goat, not me.”

You choked in your laugh when you notice a Dwarven boot in the corner of your eye. Uttering a silent curse and wishing he hadn’t heard what you said, you turn to face the dwarf king while an innocent smile etched on your face. “How long have you been there?” you ask timidly, your heart beat increasing, slowly making you grow sick of its infernal pounding.

“Long enough.” He said voice steady and grim as it is always.

“Care to tell me _why_ you’re here?”

His silence obviously meant: _no_ and oddly you didn’t care. He’s _here_ , isn’t that what you wanted? Now, you just need him to stay. Shifting slightly away from him, you look up at him and he returns with a brow raised. _I want you to sit here, dummy._ “Whatever petty grudge you have against me, can we disregard until dawn? And after then you may return to whatever you felt about me. I am far too exhausted to argue with you.”—patting the ground beside you—“Sit here, if you want.”

Thinking that he would leave, you couldn’t help the look of astonishment on your face when he sat beside you—with a short distance in between, of course; it matters not. He leaned against the thick tree with arms folded against his chest and arched one leg. You were staring at him—at the side of his face to be exact; and like many other things: you no longer cared. He wouldn’t speak to you for some reason or regard your stare at him. He is most likely pondering over something whatever a dwarf king is concerned of or other. _Talk to him_ , you urge yourself.

“Answer me a few things?” you say; his gaze turned towards you, making you stifle on your breaths. “The silence is becoming unbearable.”

“Such as?”

Cursing yourself in your mind, you rack your brain for _something_ to ask him.

“Where are we headed exactly?” _good enough..._

“So, no one told you then,” he almost seemed amused, “ _Erebor_.”

“And that is?” He looked to you as if you were a child unaware of obvious things and questioning all, he was clearly annoyed. The question died on your lips, making you muse over the thought of the dwarves headed to Erebor—wherever that is. Then a thought stuck out—“What are dwarf _women_ like?”

The ends of his lips tug into a brief gentle smile and your heart flutters at the rare sight. “They’re quite like us men in appearance. Yes, they have beards, if you’re wondering.”

You cough out a silent laughter and you try and wrap your head around the idea. Before realizing it, you were closer to him, propped up on your arm and your chin brushed slightly against your shoulder, diminishing the gap that existed between you. Diffidently, you ask, “Any significant other?”

Chuckling humorlessly, he asked: “Is this your last question?”

“No,” you teased, “But perhaps I shall save the rest for Gandalf—or Bilbo if they will allow it.”

At length, he said; “I have not found time for such.” He looked dismal, more than he used to and it was a knife in your chest to see him like that. He didn’t seem to seem to be at ease with the look of sheer pity you gave.

“So have I,” you say in attempt to relieve him of whatever frustration you caused, “I’ve been busy scolding my two unruly nephews and watching out for this annoying, petty, girl who keeps asking me useless questions.” You mimic his tone and grim facial expression then flash a wide grin. He returned an amused half-smile, and you watched as his cheek puffed and his beard twitched; the throbbing in your chest merely grew louder, not like you cared anymore, and your face flushed with colour. Oh, how you wanted to hold his face in your palm and kiss him, feel his beard scratching against your skin. If you had a little less restraint, you would have done so.

“You look better with that smile,” you said just before the beautiful smile of his faded; sighing deeply, you add, “Why not smile more often?”

“I clearly recall you saying that you shall save the rest of your questions for the Wizard or the hobbit.”

“I said _perhaps_ I would; just answer me this _last_ one,” you repeat, “Why not?” 

“Not often do I see a reason to do so.”

Gulping past a lump in your throat, you look to him with concern once more. And he was uneasy with it such as he was earlier.

“Alright, _final_ question. I promise!” Giving a hearty laugh, you watched him furrow his brows. Your laugh faded and your expression turned more solemn but your tone was hinted with curiosity. “And those _reasons_ are? One of them, at least.”

He looked like he was dying to tell you—his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it and his lips slightly parted—but he said nothing merely gazing at you with his gorgeous blue eyes.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me,” you gave him a reassuring smile and placed a hand on his lap, then drew it back thinking that you’ve overstepped whatever boundary you believe you have with  him.

“I’ve answered your questions,” he said.

“Some of them,” you muttered—he either ignored you or didn’t hear at all.

“Now, answer mine: why are you out here?”

“I woke up and needed some air.”

His was clearly unsatisfied with your answer. That’s not fair, you’ve been coping with his fragments for answers and he isn’t content with yours.

“I had a nightmare that woke me up.” His face remained the same: unconvinced and demanding. _What does it take to please this man!?_

Alright, that sounded _weird_ in your head—and you quickly disregard ever thinking of it. You showed him a stern gaze of your own, signifying that you would tell no more than that. All he gave was a sigh and turned away. A short yawn escaped your mouth and you drew back completely, returning the gap that existed in between. “I bet it’s nearly dawn,” you said, leaning on the far side of the tree. “You should get some sleep—or go inside before anyone misses you.”

He said nothing.

“Well, I’m sleeping here,” you glance over your shoulder to see if he remained there—and he did, but averted his eyes. “Good night, Thorin,” you muttered, wishing that you were in his arms as you fell asleep against the rough bark.

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Unwittingly, you were brought out of your slumber. Drifting into the waking world without wanting to, your eyes were hazy while you were exposed to the radiance of the dawning sun. You look up to see a dark figure over you. Your vision was still unclear but you are certain that it was him.

“ _Thorin_ ,” you whisper.

Idly, you move your hand up and feel his rough beard beneath your fingers, then bring it down to rest on his forearm. With the realization that your head rested on his lap, you gladly brush your head against his stomach. You feel his hand stroke your hair then cradle your cheek; nuzzling into his palm, you release a soft moan whilst you shut your eyes. He gently rubbed your flushed skin with his thumb. He didn’t utter a word. But that didn’t matter. The warmth of his hand soothed you whilst you fell once more into slumber.

¯

You stretch your tense muscles and ease yourself off the lush grass. Opening your eyes, you frantically search for Thorin but to no avail.

He wasn’t there. He probably was never there.

You fall back into the grass, disappointed. Wondering if it was a dream or not nearly drove you mad. It felt too real to be one but then again your vision was vague. Again, like a many other things, you didn’t care—but you want to care. And you’re tearing yourself between decisions and beliefs that it’s beginning to hurt.

Now, you just ache for his touch. By the gods, you _do_ care.

With a groan, you stand up, not bothering to brush off the leaves or grass that clung onto your garb and head towards the door. Noticing that it was locked, you knocked. Soon enough, you heard the latch be lifted from the other side and the door swung open with Bofur’s smile greeting you.

“You’re just in time for breakfast, lassie,” he said and you followed him towards the table bordered by dwarves drinking from large tankards and feasting while Gandalf sat in the corner blissfully smoking on his pipe. Your eyes locked with Thorin’s when you passed him as he leaned against a pillar, his arms folded across his chest. _Eru_ , you wanted to kiss him right then and there but then he looked away, making you return to reality. You looked toward the company of dwarves sitting around the table and they were all shooting questioning gazes at you however you held your chin up and returned a genial smile—then they returned to their tankards.

Very soon you joined them; sitting next to Bofur, eating, drinking the tankard of—what seemed to be—milk, and watching the dwarves fill their faces with meat and bread whilst you tried to recall their names when you looked at them. It definitely took some getting used to.

Thirteen dwarves, a Man, a Wizard and a— _hobbit_!

_Where is Bilbo?_

You were so close to asking when the Bofur where he was when you saw him walking towards the table whilst he fixed his coat and spun and seemed to be shocked by the oxen and goats. You wondered why they didn’t bother to invite him to eat—why they didn’t invite _you_ to eat. But you do, in fact, know so very little about Dwarven or Dwarvish— _whatever they call it_ —customs. He had his place near you and he seemed to be silent for reasons you did not know. You were about to ask him what was the matter when Beorin said: “So you are the one they call: Oakenshield, tell me: why is Azog the defiler hunting you?”

Thorin sounded so upset when he said: “You know of Azog how?”

Beorin spoke of how the orcs would capture his kind and torture them just for the amusement of it. Orcs were an appalling race and this just made you sick wishing those vile creatures would return to whatever chasm whence they came and rot to death.

“There are others like you?” the hobbit asked.

“Once there were many.” You could see the anguish in his face.

“And now?”

“Now there is only one.” Silence fell in great awe and pity before Beorin spoke once again to Gandalf. “You must reach the mountain before the last days of autumn.”

“Before Durin’s Day falls, yes.” Gandalf nodded, lowering his pipe.

You whisper a question into Bofur’s ear, unknowingly earning a stern gaze from the king; “Durin’s Day?”

“It’s our new year, so to say, lass.” He whispers back and you mutter thanks turning to Beorin once more.

“You are running out of time.” Beorin says flatly.

“That’s why we must pass through Mirkwood.”

The mention of that name sends a shiver down your spine and you curse beneath your breath. Silently excusing yourself from the table, you then head towards the door. You hear Gandalf speaking your name and you stop to face the suspicious and questioning faces of the crowd. “Whatever is the matter, dear?”

“I mean no offense,” no smile fell on your lips and your unyielding gaze pierced all. “But I would rather welcome death than to step anywhere near that accursed forest or the creatures that dwell in it.”


	7. Remorseless Leniency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your eyes narrowed, looking to him with such doubt. This can’t be true. But the stern gaze he holds ruins your hope.

You storm out, banging the door shut behind you. Rage festers and boils inside of you, shrouding the fear that lingered behind it. You hear the door creak open once more and turn expect to find a concerned Wizard instead a dwarf king with a furrowed brow. The sight of him brings you some relief but that did not diminish the trepidation.

“You cannot make me go back into that”—your voice cracks—“forest. Not while those  _elves_ dwell there.” You pause, trying to regain your composure, not realizing the anxiety evident in your tone. “You don’t know them like  _I_ do.” Breathing deeply, you attempt to calm yourself but to no avail. You shift your weight uneasily and soon notice that you’re trembling. And you know that he knows you’re afraid—it can’t be more palpable.

“Do you not think that I would dare be in the presence of those elves as well?” he looked disgusted when he said ‘elves’ like they were not worthy enough to be uttered by him.

“Then why are you going? Is there not another path?”

“We have no time for such.”

“Then make time!” not intending to have shouted, you draw back and soften your tone. “What is so important that we should be there before _Durin’s Day_?”

He sighs and rubs his fingers against his temples. Clearly, he is frustrated—not at you but for some unknown reasons you would rather not delve into. At last, he speaks; “There is a hidden door, and the keyhole will only be revealed by the last light of Durin’s Day. That is our only chance to enter Erebor.”

“And this quest is for what?” You mutter, and then slightly raise your voice. “What is in Erebor that you would go through hell...” then it hits you, Balin’s tale of the war between Elves and Dwarves, how it began because of _greed_. “Do not tell me that there is mounts of gold involved.”

 The silence from him gives no reassurance. “So, this quest is to steal gold and use Bilbo as your burglar.”

“It is more than that.”

“Then tell me!” you draw back once more as his gaze becomes cruel, his shoulders tense and he grips his hands into fists. He so desperately tries to hold back his anger and you soften your voice attempting not to worsen it. “Tell me.”

“Erebor is our homeland. That _gold_ rightfully belongs to us. And that is not why Mister Baggins is here.” He paused, “The Arkenstone is what he is after.”

“Then why have you not done this before? Did you fail on your last attempt—?”

“There were no previous attempts. This is the only one.”

You feared to ask why—but you had to know. “I dare ask why?”

“It was stolen by Smaug—a firedrake that came from the North.”

Your eyes narrowed, looking to him with such doubt. _This can’t be true_. But the stern gaze he holds ruins your hope. “You mean to say that you are leading us to our deaths? Do honestly you think thirteen dwarves and a halfling will succeed in vanquishing a fire breathing dragon or at least take back whatever it took from you? Thorin, this is suicide!”

He shouts in a language you cannot understand—and you don’t wish to. In Common Tongue he says: “This is for the future of my people. I do not expect one of your kind to understand.”

It was a dagger in your heart when he said that—and it sparks a flame inside, unleashing the rage that festered within. “What are you saying? That I am not worthy to be in _your_ presence? I _am_ just a stray that is forced to follow you all or be slaughtered at your command. Or do you mean that no daughter of Men can be with a mighty Dwarf King? But you are not _my_ King!”

He remained silent, burning himself in his own anger. By the gods, you regret ever speaking. You attempt to utter an apology but you merely stand there with your lips parted. “I...” you managed to mutter. “I meant nothing by it...”

“Of course, you didn’t.” Grim is his voice, tainted with a hidden wrath that is so close to being unconstrained. You tremble slightly and bury yourself in regret. “I have no doubt that you don’t belong here. You can hardly fight with a sword and fend for yourself even _with_ your bow. You are nothing but a burden to us all.” He turns his back on you. “Leave.”

“What?” You whisper after fighting off the tears from his spiteful words.

“Did you not hear me? I said: Leave!” He didn’t even bother look at you. His voice resounds in your ears, worsening your trembling. Gritting your teeth and aggressively wiping away the fallen tears, you turn and hurriedly ran out the other door, leaving the walls of Beorin’s house and its safety.

¯

He turns back just to find the other door slightly ajar. You were gone. He is tempted to run after you but he knows why he can’t and turns back to Beorin’s house and enters. Anxious and questioning faces meet him but he looks up toward the Wizard who gripped his staff fretfully.

“Did you manage persuade her?” Gandalf asked, looking down at the king.

“I told her to leave,” he said plainly, the remorse that he feels is so cleverly hid. “She is long gone. It is for the better.”

“For the _better?_ ” says the Wizard with utter frustration. “Do you think sending her out there where orcs and wargs can stumble upon her while she is unarmed and easily kill or torture her is _for the better?_ Folly! You have made _better_ decisions than _that_ , Thorin Oakenshield, and this is hardly a _good_ one!”

Averting his gaze, he didn’t answer. He knows the stakes and feels as if he shouldn’t be reminded. “Excuse me,” he mutters and walks deeper into the house, breaking away the gazes that focused on him. Leaning against a pillar, he brings his arms across his chest, burying himself beneath a mountain of regret.

The instant the king left, Gandalf suspicions were cleared.

“I hope the lass is alright.” Balin says, very much aware that Thorin could still hear them all.

“Maybe we should go after her,” Bofur mutters, also aware that the king may hear him. “She couldn’t have gotten far,” he turns to Gandalf frantically, “Could she?”

¯

There you sit and lean against the wall bordering Beorin’s house. If you ran any further who knows what danger awaited you—especially since you are unarmed. This relentless pain in your chest just seems to grow.

_Does he truly feel this way about me?_

One voice screams out yes and the other no. _Eru_ , you’re tearing yourself apart again. And this agony you feel is all so familiar. You bite back the tears urging to shed.

_I was a fool to have fallen for that bastard._

But you _still_ have a deep regard for him.

_Then I am still that fool._

In all honesty, you forgive him—for being such a cold-hearted, greedy, bastard who you love. Forgiveness is what you seek from him but afraid that it might not come to that.

You are so tempted to return but you fear that he would once more tell you to leave. And you cannot bear to feel that rejection again.

If you are to move forth and leave them you are most likely not going to survive the orc infested woods but if you return, face rejection and his wrath and go into that forest there is little chance that you would make it out of the forest alive. It is either death—or possible death with him.

¯

“Would she want to come back though?” Bofur asks, “I mean Thorin can be—you know...” he stammers still aware that Thorin is just around the corner.

“Well, it is best if we just find her and ask,” Says Gandalf, “we wouldn’t want her running into trouble. And if she no longer wishes to be a part of the company, so be it.” He looks at the crowd of dwarves with blank or dismal faces—most gone to ready the ponies with Beorin.

“I doubt that she would wish to return.” Thorin says, appearing from behind not wanting to look towards the Wizard who clearly did not believe him.

The door creaks open and all awestruck gazes fall on you once you enter the room. But you only looked to Thorin. “I...” you struggle to speak amidst the intent stare he gave, “I...forgot my bow—and quiver.” Immediately you look to the ground.

“Of course,” Gandalf says, nodding slightly, in doubt of your actions. “Thorin.”

He glances at the Wizard before striding deeper into the room until he left your field of vision.

“Do you really want to leave, lass?” Bofur asks and you turn to him with great remorse before hearing heavy footsteps approaching then stare at the ground once more. You can’t bring yourself to look at him thinking that you are worth nothing to him. You take your quiver, still not meeting his eyes, and hang it over your shoulder whilst you took the bow in hand then make for the door.

Turning to Bofur when you push the door open, “I do not wish to. But I am not wanted here.” You say and close the door behind you.


	8. Assured Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems far better to die than feel the torture of knowing that he might push you away again. That probably feels like death as well, only you are still alive and able to feel it over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so I’m taking a bit more of the scene Tolkien wrote from here to Mirkwood because I love Tolkien.  
> aaand I made stuff up hehe.

“Will you not go after her?” Gandalf insists, his voice overwhelming with agitation at the ever-so-cantankerous dwarf king.

“She is better off on her own than with— _us._ ” The hesitation was clear in his voice. Gandalf just finds it all the more a reason to doubt him.

“I deem you would regret this, Thorin Oakenshield,” he says but the king no longer meets his eyes—he _already_ regrets it; “You say that it would be better off for her. But you know very well that it is quite the opposite—for the _both_ of you, might I add.”

Thorin couldn’t bring himself to answer. There is nothing left to say. Unless he succumbs to the Wizard and admits that he was wrong—and clearly he always feels that he is right. But now, he doubts even that. Gandalf releases a deep sigh of exasperation and leaves the king with the remaining dwarves, furrowing their brows in confusion. The clamoring and questions began soon after which were all ignored or avoided by the dwarf king left to wallow in his fault—one that you would be a constant reminder of if you decide to return.

¯

You’re far beyond the borders now. The vast field is what stands between Beorin’s house and the woodland where the orcs pursued you and the company. Face death rather than rejection. It seems far better to die than feel the torture of knowing that he might push you away again. That probably feels like death as well, only you are still alive and able to feel it over and over again.

You hear footsteps from behind, light and the stride is far longer than yours. Clearly it wasn’t Thorin and yet you hurry your pace, not wanting to be stopped until you hear your voice be called but you didn’t bother turning around. He seemed to have stopped as well.

“You are making a grave mistake, my dear.” It is Gandalf.

“What is the point of returning if he hates me?” You say softly; feeling that he didn’t hear, you turn around just to see that he was a stride away.

“Do not be absurd, he does not hate you. And most likely _he_ is the absurd one, come to think of it.” You merely shake your head, denying even the slight possibility of his statement. He continues to insist; “He was not in the right mind. I doubt he has any intention to hurt you.”

Hanging your head, you huff in disbelief, “Oh, he definitely meant what he said. They were all true and as dire as they all may be he wasn’t wrong,” even on the verge of breaking down, you managed to keep your voice still; “They did nothing but hurt me and so did he. I’m just a peasant to a king like him.”

“Say no such things!” he says, allowing you to meet his gaze, “He may be royalty but he is not a king yet. You are no _peasant_ and I doubt he sees you as such—he has a deep regard for you after all. You may doubt what I say but it is the truth. You are worth more to him than you think, even if he has yet to realize it. Same goes for you, my dear.” he gives you a caring smile; you don’t know what to think anymore. “I know you’re afraid. We all have our fears, and so does Thorin. Tell me, when you were with him last night, what did you feel?”

Your eyes widen in surprise and your lips part slightly, meaning to contradict—but you no longer mean to. Taking a short breath, you speak; “I felt like no more harm would come—like the dangers were all gone and I was left with him in our own world. I felt safe.”

“So did he, I bet,” Gandalf says, his smile still wide whilst he leans against his staff. “Whatever he may have said earlier is _not_ true, believe me. And if you continue to doubt then...why not come back and prove him otherwise?”

And without realizing it, you managed a smile—a laugh even. “Why is it that you always manage to convince me? Perhaps you cast a spell on me when my back was turned.” You chuckle and your smile widens, he gives an amused hearty laugh. Then you look intently at the Wizard as if this was the first time you’ve had a good look at him. It’s as if you’ve seen him far before your first encounter and you utter, “I feel like I know you...”

For a moment he seemed ill at ease.

“But that cannot be,” you say and his expression immediately changes, it became somewhat softer, “I just met you—a few days ago, if I might add. Oh, and...Gandalf?” you mutter, “I know it is a lot to ask but can you ensure my safety amongst those...?” your voice trails off.

“My dear,” he spoke softly, “I am afraid that _I_ cannot do so, but I suppose you _know_ who can.”

 _Thorin_ , _of course Gandalf meant him and there’s no bother denying it_. You nod slightly and follow him when he turns and walks you toward the house. “Come,” he says, “I believe they are tending to the ponies. Perhaps, they are ready to depart.”

You walk beside Gandalf and approached the company; some have already been mounting their steeds or tightening the straps on the ponies’ saddles. And there is a large black horse which you deem is meant for the Wizard.

It has not been long since you’ve stepped anywhere near them and Thorin is already marching towards you. He did not seem too pleased of your being here, and you mimic his cold stare.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his voice as adamant as his gaze.

“I want to help, even if you might not want me to.” You fake a smile and he shoots a glance at the Wizard who he seems to be more infuriated at. He sighs deeply before turning to you once more. The smile was no longer on your face.

“We must move quickly and we’re wasting time,” he says; you expected an insult but glad none came. “Come, you ride with me.” He adds before turning away.

Silently you question if what you heard was correct and then hesitantly follow him towards his pony. Looking back, you see that Gandalf is no longer there but far ahead mounting his own horse. He mounts first then you follow, sitting quietly behind him, very much in doubt and still quite irate at the way he treated you—and yet not at all. Silently you curse yourself for having forgiven him so easily. _At least make him suffer quite a bit_ , you tell yourself and decide to ignore him hereafter.

The Wizard’s horse trots at a steady pace in front of the company who seemed to have formed a line. When the pony you’re riding begins to move, you were unsure of where to hold Thorin and soon you take hold of his shoulders, trying not to get hit by the quiver and bow that hangs from his back.

 _At least it wasn’t mine. And I didn’t know he was an archer_.

That just made him more attractive to you, didn’t it?

 _Shut up_.

And yes, here you go once more—having a conversation with yourself which you will deny later. At least you didn’t say that out loud.

The sound of Beorin’s voice reminds you of the reality you escaped briefly, “Go now while you have the light,” he says; “Your hunters are not far behind.”

You deem he meant Azog and the other orcs and wargs. But to you it feels as if you were headed for your hunters in means to escape another. That is only if they find you there. And you pray to the gods that they don’t.

Taking your mind off such things, you peer around for any sign of the hobbit. He appears to be far back and you doubt that he could see you but Bofur could and you flash him as smile. He seemed to be more than pleased to see you here—unlike some. You turn towards Thorin’s back and grip tighter on his shoulders when the pace abruptly quickens.

“You alright?” he asks, glancing at you over his shoulders and you merely nod.

He didn’t say much afterward—he didn’t say anything at all actually. No one did. Everyone seems to be set on making it to the Greenwood or _Mirkwood_ as like it was called now.

Without the constant swishing tails of the ponies, or the rattling of metal or steel, or the infernal buzzing of various insects that were larger than you would wish them to be, it would have been silent—piercingly silent.

You watch the sky become a bright pale blue and the thick white clouds embed in your eyes until it turns a more fiery crimson and auburn. Then you see the azure replace the warm colors of the sky as if a fire died and the darkness crept in but it was beautiful. And the stars are like gems scattered across a black veil.

Then darkness overcomes you.

Quickly you open your eyes. You’re just falling asleep. Looking down, you nearly forgot that you were on this venture and riding with Thorin. You’re still holding onto his shoulders and feeling the softness of his fur coat. Sleep seems so great right about now and you wonder why no one is stopping. Nodding your head, you slowly drift into slumber; your grip loosens and a sudden bolt from the pony wakes you, making you regain your grip.

Thorin draws a breath and takes the bow and quiver from his back; he hangs it across his chest instead.

“We need more distance between us and those orcs so we’re not stopping for the night,” he says and with one hand on the reins, he takes yours and wraps your arm around him; you to the same to the other and feel his free hand atop yours. “You need your rest.” He glances at you over his shoulder and without another word you rested your head against his back. Burying your face in the fur of his that coat proves very comforting—and so did his scent of the forest and pipeweed; you guess that he smoked some earlier or yesterday.

It was not long before you fall asleep.

¯

It is dark. You hear nothing but weeping and distinct voices. They all sound familiar but their speech is vague.

_“All will be well...”_

One voice stood out, a man—old and by the gods you know you’ve heard his voice before. The weeping only grows louder until it completely overwhelms you.

You forced your eyes open. The weeping fades and you stare up at the oaken ceiling. Soon, you realize that you’re lying down on bed not at all soft but ever so familiar. You sit up and take in your surroundings: low ceilings, a partially broken floor boards and a woman sitting near a crooked wooden table.

A smile tugs at the ends of your lips and you run to her. You know this is a dream—of course it is—but you no longer care. You take her in your arms. She laughs and pats your back.

“Father will be back at any moment,” she says and you draw back, “We might as well clean up for him. I bet he’s had a long day.”

The smile on your face doesn’t fade. This was before he lost his job as a blacksmith—the first of countless others. His first employer wanted your sister and he was older than your father—of course, father wouldn’t let him have his way and beat him when he came over to take Dianiea away. Before father came, you shot an arrow through his shoulder to warn him. He would have been dead if father didn’t come but he did, and the man just made it to death half-way.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you mutter and something in the corner of your eye draws your attention: a man with a large, wide brimmed, pointy hat. You divert your eyes and the man was gone. In his place: a door, tall and made of stone. You turn to Dianiea once more and she vanished, not to your surprise.

You strain to push the stone door open and slowly it scraped against the floor. Golden light from torches fill the chamber and the area behind you that suddenly grew dark. A man sits in a chair, his hands cupping his face as he weeps and a young girl, also weeping embraces him. You look past them, a woman lay on a bed, her face is pale and her eyes are left open, staring into nothingness.

And the old man; he’s facing the woman, his silver hair cascades down his back. He appears to be carrying something.

Slowly you walk towards him; the boards on the floor creak with each step. You reach out your hand but immediately draw back when he turns; a newborn child wrapped in cloth is cradled in his arms. You quickly move back, in shock. You know this place—that man, everyone here.

“Do not fret, child,” he mutters, “I am not here to bring any harm to you. All will be well.”

_Gandalf..._

Your eyes flutter open as you wake. It is dawn and you are still resting on Thorin’s back like his hand is still resting on yours. His back vibrates to his deep chuckle and you smile at the rare sound—you realize that it was the cause of your awakening but not such a dismal one at that. The dream you can ponder on later. Then you hear another from behind you, deep as well.

“I see your _plan_ failed.” The other says; you recognize him as _Dwalin_ if you’re not mistaken. “You didn’t expect her to come back, did ya?”

“Quiet,” Thorin says, lowering his voice. “She might wake up. And, _no_ , I thought she left for good.”

“Aye, but it’s probably _for the better,_ ” He says mockingly and laughs. You feel Thorin give a slightly unamused huff and you try not to chuckle into his back. “I bet you’re glad that the lass came back.”

“I am.”

A wide grin forms on your face and your cheeks flush with colour unaware that Thorin managed a smile as well.

“Then why ask her to leave?”

You wonder the same and unwearyingly wait for his reply. It came, but not in the language that you wished. Soon after, you hear Dwalin chuckling.

 _Eru, what does that mean?!_ You rapidly mouth curses in Rohirric, slightly feeling as if he is taunting you. And you unwillingly release a groan. You hear a muffled one from the king and a gulp right after. His shoulders tensed and for you this was beyond amusing. You shut your eyes and slightly part your lips as you moan, wondering just how far you can push him. His shoulders are still tense and you hear him stifle on his breaths before he cleared his throat and called your name.

_That’s it? I am not even done yet._

You roll your shoulders and place your chin on his shoulder while slowly opening your eyes. “Hmm?”

“Good, you’re awake,” he says, still seeming out of breath and you try and suppress your smile. “You might as well eat.” You arch your brow and withdraw but see no sign of anyone stopping. The pace seems to have slowed, but nothing more. A moment later the dwarves are passing around food on horseback, which mostly consists of apples, mutton, and rabbits—which you deem they hunted while you were sleeping.

A piece of mutton comes hurling toward you and you manage to catch it midair. It was cold. Of course it is. The taste wasn’t that bad—not after the third bite at least. You look to Thorin, wanting to offer him some but he was already munching on an apple.

The day passes quicker than you thought. You decide not to look to the sky anymore instead at the back of his head; your hands are on his shoulders again. It was not long before the auburn colors reflected on his hair and dark only the pale light of the moon shining upon it.

And the moon was high when you all come to a stop.

“We’ll rest here for tonight,” Thorin says before he dismounts, swinging his bow and quiver to hang against his back. You descend after him and stroke the pony’s mane, he was clearly worn out.

“We’re near...” that’s the first thing you’ve said in a long while and you lick your dry lips whilst you caress the pony’s head and he nuzzles against your neck. You smile; unaware that Thorin is watching you.

“Are you afraid?” He asks just above a whisper as he reaches for your hand and holds it. You look to him and grip his hand.

You smile and shake your head. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sorta inspired by the interview I watched of Richard (I can't find the link anymore, sorry) when the guy was talking about the "I have never been so wrong in all my life" scene and asked Richard when has he felt like he has "never been so wrong" and Richard said: "Oh, I am never wrong. Never." (not in those exact words though)


	9. Sensibly Absurd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel as if your endurance for physical pain is quite higher than the same for the emotional. It’s not so unlooked for since you forgot what it feels like to love and be loved and especially the pain inevitably attached to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the word "absurd" for some reason. _and I love comments too...//wink wink_  
>  Well...um,hope you like it! c:

You glance at the Wizard who sits far on the other side, smoking his pipe with his eyes shut. There is no fire this night—a safety precaution, so says the king. The risk of being spotted is high with the open grounds, unless you count a few tall stones. Once again you ate cold mutton and some of the rabbit. Oh, what you would give for a warm meal—and a bath. And preferably some armor.

The bandages around your upper body and wrists are still where they are. Not to mention your torn bloodstained shirt. Not really worthy battle armor material. And that’s quite literal.

Opposing your luck are the winds that come from the south. By the gods, it is cold. And you’re the only underdressed one as it seems. The thought never mattered to you until now.

The bonfire still didn’t matter, however. Most of the dwarves already fell asleep immediately after eating; you deem they had little sleep the night before and the fire would normally be put out by this time. They didn’t even bother lay out their bedrolls and merely slept where they are—either sitting or lying down or back against towering rocks and stone. For a moment you missed the excessive clamoring and mirth of the company. What seems to be the only racket now is the sudden whispered argument between Gandalf and Thorin. Oh, and of course, the snores emanating from the slumbering dwarves; the dispute from the two seems to overwhelm the snoring.

Few dwarves were left awake. As far as you can see it’s just Thorin, Fili, and Kili—who is being constantly nudged by his older brother to keep awake. They were looking after the ponies and the horse after all, lined up close to where the king and wizard argue. They were also on the lookout for orcs or vile creatures that may have a taste for dwarves—or flesh in general. But as far as you’ve ventured with them, you have seen none.

You sit not quite far from the company; stray too far then the orcs or other creatures might capture you without the others even noticing but no, you’re merely on the borders. If you concentrate, you could even hear the row between the king and the wizard who were on the farther side and as compelling as it is, you dare not to.

The grass is cool beneath your hands and Thorin’s voice abruptly raises then ceases without warning. Either he lowers his voice or finishes the argument; you’re not quite sure since he had his back at you. Rows, snoring, the large buzzing insects that seem to appear out of nowhere: all louder than you want them to be and you wish them all to cease. Shutting your eyes, you attempt to ignore the unwanted noises. You need to clear your thoughts.

_The dream of Gandalf is yet another dream. Nothing more_ _. How could there be?_

_About Thorin asking me to leave; Eru, I still need to ask._

_The rest of the company’s thoughts on my being here: uncertain. I’d rather_ not _ask._

_My bow and quiver?_

You feel the hard stave of your bow in your grasp and you lay it on your lap. The leather strap of your quiver is still across your chest and you sigh.

_I imagined he would have taken it by now._

Slowly you open your eyes and glare at the ground in front of you and to your surprise: a pair of hobbit feet await there. Looking up, you meet the hobbit’s kind gaze.

“Bilbo,” you say in a hushed tone, you didn’t want to wake anyone at this hour, “I didn’t hear you coming,” licking your dry lips, you gesture for him to sit before you and he gladly complies.

“Now I see why they made you the burglar. You’re remarkably light on your feet.” You whisper, earning a half-amused huff from the hobbit. “Come to think of it, I promised you that I’d teach you a thing or two about thieving.”

“I’m afraid that slipped my mind due to recent happenings. But I’m glad that you remember,” he replies in the same soft tone.

“Thorin mentioned that you were stealing from  _Smaug_?” he nods quite sullenly and you reach for his hand and grasp it to comfort him. “It’s alright. He’s no more than a rather large lizard,” after a short exchange of muffled laughs, you continue; “I think it’s somewhat an advantage that you know who—or  _what_ —you’re going to steal from. It would give you a better chance to prepare. I was told that it is far better to speak in riddles to a dragon. Yes,” you muster a hushed laugh when the hobbit furrowed his brows at your statement, “I know it sounds rather odd but if you think about it, it’s quite better to tell this beast riddles with a hint of truth in them than to tell him than that you’re Bilbo Baggins from...” you suddenly stop and realize that you have no idea where he comes from.

“The Shire,” he mutters with a smile.

You mouth a thanks before continuing, “Right, from the Shire where he could venture off to if he manages to escape. The less he knows the better. But not less enough for him to be compelled to...you know.” The smile fades from his lips and you slightly grip the hobbit’s hand.

“Just remember to stay out of sight. I doubt misdirection would fool the beast. You’re very light on your feet and that’s a great advantage if I say so myself. I just apologize that I know very little of stealing from dragons. But you will be _fine_ , Bilbo, I am sure of it.” A wide consoling grin plays on your face. And Bilbo appears to be more at ease now also seeming like he would now prefer to avoid matters concerning dragons and thievery.

“Speaking of being  _fine_. I see you and Thorin are doing well.” His words assure your thoughts and your face unknowingly flushes with colour at his choice of topic.

“He has not yet made an attempt to kill me or the other way around; so, yes, I suppose we _are_ doing well. I am still quite confused of what he thinks of me though.”

“Then why not ask him?” he asks so innocently you couldn’t help but smile.

If you didn’t know any better you would have assumed that the hobbit read your mind. You look over Bilbo’s shoulder and watch the wizard storm off, leaving Thorin to stand alone. Continuing to eye him, “Perhaps...” you mumble and see him clench his hands into fists, “...Another time,” you say at last. If you are to approach him now it is either you worsen Thorin’s mood or enlighten it. To uplift his spirit is a chance worth taking—if allowing him to unleash his rage upon you was _not_ an option.

The moment your gaze returns to the halfling’s, you have no doubt that he is thinking otherwise. His brow arched with frustration and a scowl to match.

“Better now than never.” he says with such sagacity in his tone.

After releasing a profound sigh of defeat, you look past Bilbo once more and unwittingly hold your breath when you see that Thorin is now lying on the lush where he had presumably closed his argument and his back is turned, preventing you to see if he was truly asleep.

“I’m afraid that would have to wait,” you utter and slowly pass your gaze to his. The scowl is long gone on his face and glances behind him. Soon he meets your eyes again and gives a considerate nod.

“Well,” he says almost inaudibly before yawning and stretching his arms. “Pardon me. I’ll be off to sleep,” he stands and brushes off the leaves and dust on his breeches, “Are you coming? Or do you plan on sleeping here?”

Looking once more in Thorin’s direction, you sigh, “No, I’m pretty well rested.”—turning to Bilbo—“You go ahead and sleep.”

“Alright,” he nods and waves as he walks closer to the group of dwarves. Your eyes leave him the moment he walked away. And it’s no surprise that your gaze returns to the king.

You feel as if your endurance for physical pain is quite higher than the same for the emotional. It’s not so unlooked for since you forgot what it feels like to love and be loved and especially the pain inevitably attached to it. And you shamelessly blame him for being attractive—and place a portion of the blame on yourself for being imprudent enough to fall for him. But that is a _very_ small fraction.

It is _completely_ his fault for being attractive.

And it is yours for standing up and making your way towards him.

_It’s a shame to see him all alone._

Yes, keep telling yourself that.

Now, you are a short stride away and his back is still turned. You reluctantly lay down on your back behind him. Silently you’re regretting your decision to even come near him and begin to stand when he rolls himself on his back and releases a low groan. _It is completely his fault_ , you remind yourself as you flip to your side and face him.

Oh, you are so compelled to touch him.

The arousal builds between your legs making you give in to your desire, reaching out your hand and brushing the back of your fingers against his cheek, the hairs on his beard scratches your skin as you move your hand down towards his chin and passes over his lips.

He stirs and you immediately draw your hand back. He looks at you with his gleaming blue eyes half lidded.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” you mutter but he merely smiles at the innocence of your words.

“Don’t bother apologizing,” he says with a soft tone, he speaks again at length; “I’m glad to see your face.”

A smile shines on your face with utter frivolity at his words. But that did not hinder your need to question him and your smile soon fades.

“Then why make me leave?” you ask at last whilst you reluctantly reach out your hand to cup his cheek, instead it lay idly on his neck.

He rolls to his side, facing you, and his hand finds its way to your hair, entangling your tresses in his fingers. But then he pulls back, suddenly aware that he broke through the invisible restraints that he keeps to himself.

“Perhaps one day, I will tell you. Alas, today is not that day.”

“And when is that day?”

“When the dragon is vanquished and when we reclaim Erebor at last. And when your—”

Your brows furrow and your frown deepens. Your thumb caresses the skin on his neck, grazing against the rough hairs near his jaw, whist you stare longingly into his eyes and wait unwearyingly for him to continue.

His lips slightly part. Hesitation is clear and, from what you perceive, he looks as if he is choosing his words ever so warily.

At last, he speaks, “And when your living is reassured,” you arch a brow in confusion but he continues, “I once said to the wizard that the only reward you would obtain from this venture is your freedom and your life. Needless to say, you deserve _far_ better. You are a part of the company and, as such, you are entitled to one-fifteenthof total profits—if any. I believe that would be more than enough to ensure you a better life when this is all over.”

“Thorin...” you whisper softly as your heart spills with regale. “I can’t possibly...What would the others say about their share lessening? I doubt they would be pleased about that.”

“And I doubt they could spend it all in one lifetime if we return with anything.” He musters a smile to match the rather wide one forming across your face. And soon you pull yourself towards him, burying your face beneath his neck and your hand now rests behind it. You mutter ample thanks, unconsciously switching from Common Tongue to Rohirric between pauses.

“What happened to the stubborn king I met a few nights past?” You murmur in Rohirric while your head still rested near his neck. Clearly, he fails to understand for he didn’t even react or respond. But you do not need such.

“I realize that I know little of you.” you wonder softly, reverting to Common Tongue. Not wanting to mention the argument of his; you wouldn’t want to ruin his current mood—one that you would be more than pleased to experience more often.  

“And I, you,” he says; his neck vibrates as he speaks and you unconsciously nestle against it.

“Would you mind telling me of your past?”

“If you tell me yours.”

Hesitantly you nod and rub your palm against the back of his neck whilst he speaks of his family, of what ailed his grandfather. You need not to see his face to see his anguish for it stains his voice. You’ve never heard him like this before. He speaks of the day the dragon came with such detail—like it happened not long ago. You could almost hear the screams of the dwarves when dragon fire rained down upon them. The ire in his tone is great when he speaks of the elves abandoning them at their time of need. Then that wrath is tainted with grief when he tells the Battle of Azanulbizar, the death of his grandfather, his brother, and a many of his kin that fought in the battle. When his tale ends with his father going missing and they are dwelling in Ered Luin. You show him such pity but he waves it off, not needing such.

“What of you?” he mutters into your ear and you grow silent.

At length you speak; “There is not much to tell, really. I am no heir to a throne or vast riches. I came from Edoras in Rohan—south from here, in the West Emnet. As dignified as you might hear the people there are, poverty still exists—since when did it not? We lived in a small house behind a barn at the far end of the city. My mother died of an illness and I could do nothing for I was a child. Then my father was beaten half to death and we could do nothing,but we had the capability, not like that was of any use. Years pass and my sister and I lived quietly. She died of an illness as well. And again I could do _nothing_ about it,” anger is more evident in your tone than grief—anger for yourself; “When buried her I left and lived for myself. I did many things—horrid things—that I know I will pay for. I...came across unsavory characters. And they gave me a task...”

“To hunt me down for my head.” He finishes and you nod, gripping the back of his neck tightly.

“But you weren’t the only one,” you whisper against his neck, “There were more before you. I had no choice. I had nothing and the rewards were more than I could ever make—” your voice cracks.

“You don’t have to speak of this if you do not wish to.” His hand rubs against the back of your head in attempt to comfort you.

“No, it’s alright,” you clear your throat and soon proceed; “I hardly even knew them and I hunted them down like I would animals. Shoot their legs and throats, so they would not run or scream. Then mutter an apology. And then take their heads. You don’t know how much I’ve regretted that.” your fingers caress the back of his neck and you manage a smile when you whisper, “I would never do that to you. Perhaps, a cloth on your mouth though.” You hear him give an amused huff and muffle laughter of your own.

Soon, your laughter fades and you shut your eyes and press your face against his neck; “Do not make me leave you again.”

You feel his hand against the small of your back slowly pulling you closer, diminishing whatever gap that exists between you both. Your body presses against his and a muffled moan escapes from your lips. You slightly move your head back to look at him while your hand finds its way to his hair and your mouth is just now inches away from his. A heat builds in your core and your hand moves to his cheek as you lean forward, lusting for the taste of his lips.

But he pulls away beneath your touch making you choke on your breaths. Your heart burns with ache from his rejection and the pain is evident in your eyes. Slowly your hand slips away; the feel of his skin is just another lucid reminder of his agonizing repulse.

Then a hand—his hand—grasps yours, keeping it where it once was. But you could not bring yourself to smile. The agony dares not leave you but left your eyes insipid as you stare coldly at the king.

A sudden burst of warmth surges through you, returning the life in your eyes; you feel his beard scratching against your skin when he presses his lips against yours. He kiss is slow and passionate; his lips part and he yearns for more intimacy, no longer caring for the restraints that held him back for so long. His tongue parts your lips and it enters your mouth, meeting yours. A moan of pure ecstasy escapes you. The kiss deepens and becomes far more possessive; both your eyes now dark with pure desire. You pull him closer, wrapping your leg around his waist and push him to his back, straddling him and his lips never leave yours.

Out of breath, you pull away slightly. His teeth tugs at your bottom lip and you feel his hot ragged breath against your skin. You can no longer take the mounting heat between your legs and you ghost kisses trailing to his jaw earning a suppressed moan from him. His hands fist in your hair while you nip at the skin of his neck. Your hands move to his collar, desperately wanting more of him and nearly tearing his garment apart.

He utters your name between breaths and his hands move to your waist, slowly pushing you away. You unwillingly pull away and look to him with eyes still clouded with lust.

“Fili and Kili.” He whispers beneath his breath.

You move your hand to cup his cheek and feel the coarse hairs beneath your touch, with a soft tone you mutter “They won’t bother us,” but the scowl on his face says otherwise. You dare not to admit that he is right—but he is.

In defeat, you sigh and lay your head, rising and falling, on his heaving chest. You look up and kiss the line of his jaw, the hairs on his beard pricking you slightly and you smile. Soon you fall asleep with pure lightheartedness.

I wish I could say the same for Thorin.

He deeply regretted ever breaking his restraints but never the degree of intimacy he gained with you. But he will soon have to pay the price.


	10. Delightfully Upsetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company’s mirth seems to have returned through muffled laughter that rose once in a while as they eat. You expect Thorin to silence them but that seldom occurs—only when their amusement gets quite riotous. He does not appear to be in the same state of mind as he was the former days and so are you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a sudden liking to Celtic music.

Pathetic.

That’s a word for how most of them see you. And as much as you deem them blind you are aware of their reason for thinking such. That incident with the warg, for instance. In all honesty, you were doing well until that blasted creature came up from behind you. And they only come up to help the beast off when you crashed beneath its weight—not like they succeeded. Did they not see you fire a _crooked_ arrow into a warg’s head that nearly attacked Thorin? You doubt even they could do such a feat.

 _The past is past; no point dwelling in it,_ you remind yourself.

Perhaps, they think your kind temperament is what defines you. By the gods, if such, they are wholly mistaken. You were not even near kind until you crossed paths with them and was reminded that emotions _do_ exist, that you need not kill for food and provisions, and that you _need_ to be kind to earn their trust.

Whatever happened to “ _the past is past”_? because you certainly _are_ dwelling in it.

But oh, you would like nothing better than to prove them wrong.

-

You wake before the dawn could even shed its light. Nothing is beneath you but the lush grass ever so welcome to your crestfallen embrace and nothing meets your gaze but the pale sky still glinting with a few stars. And you just realize that you slept with your bow and lay on your quiver, which honestly did not make a good rest. Now, you are cold, upset, and your back aches, _oh gods_.

The company’s mirth seems to have returned through muffled laughter that rose once in a while as they eat. You expect Thorin to silence them but that seldom occurs—only when their amusement gets quite riotous. He does not appear to be in the same state of mind as he was the former days and so are you. You’ve barely spoken to him or given him any sort of regard and he did the same to you—without even trying. It may be your previous thought of _ignoring him hereafter_ before the thought itself was ignored, perchance.

Honestly, you’re not speaking to anyone. Not even the hobbit—who seems to be pondering over things that you are not aware of.

If anyone is noticing your sudden lack of speech then you would not know. Most seems too buried beneath their witty banter and Dwarven humor—which is basically telling amusing tales in their language.

You used to spend your free time (if there was any) learning, if not how to travel around the lands, the various tongues of Middle Earth from books you may or may not have stolen or came across. And most of the time it proved a great asset. But now there is a maddening communication barrier that makes you regret not studying Dwarven or Dwarvish or whatever-it-is-that-they-call-it.

Sullenly, you tune out their voices to be able to hear the one in your head.

 _What is the matter with you?_ You ask yourself, unaware of the answer until you glance to your side and see the dark thickets in the horizon, not more than a league away.

It is that forest—that accursed forest.

Not fear but an anxiety washes over you. Reminding you of what happened there before. It is not the forest’s doing. It was never about the damn forest. But you barely escaped alive the last time. You once said that you would rather welcome death than be anywhere near that forest and whatever dwells in it. And that is still quite true.

Surely, if ever you are foolish enough to return, they would not hesitate to slaughter you, especially after what you’ve done.

Your thoughts are interrupted as you hear the kind tone of Balin’s voice reminding you that you have not yet eaten.

After yet another small serving of cold rabbit comes the time to ride which you hope has far less encumbrance—the nonexistent sort that runs amuck in your head. The dawn has not yet come, but none complained. Your hands return to his shoulders as you ride, it’s like that brief moment of pure ecstasy with him never even occurred. He didn’t seem to take much of it—only glancing back at you for the briefest moments, but nothing more.

That is until you feel his hand caressing your bandaged wrist and you manage to escape the seemingly eternal abyss of sheer dismal and imaginary hindrances.

He grasps onto it and lowers it to his side to get a better hold. “Are you alright?” he asks quite plainly and glances at you over his shoulder,

“Are you referring to the rope burns or in general?” You say that in such a monotonous manner that he arches a brow.

There is a slight hesitation in his voice when he says: “Both.”

“The burns are fine.”

“What of you then?”

Your silence brought him no relief. Not wanting to show him any sign of your fret, you fake a smile, slip your hand from his grasp, and wrap your arms around his waist. “I’m fine.” You say at last, softer than you expected.

His hands return to the reins as he sighs and turns away, saying not another word.

¯

The world appears to move agonizingly sluggish at this point. You grow nearer to the forest every second and the slow pace just made the matters worse. It seems like years before the night fell and you are not more than a couple of leagues from the Gate of which Gandalf speaks. A chill runs down your spine as you realize how close you are. And that is the last thing you wish to think of.

The moon is high when the company decides to stop in a wooded area with a small pond not far. Stretching your muscles, you somewhat begin the night by assisting Thorin with unloading the pony. It did not take long before most of the sacks were off the saddle and near the camp. Thorin then brings the last rucksack to the unlit campsite whilst you lead the pony toward the others, stroking its mane and whispering comforting nothings in Rohirric as you walk.

You tend to the rest of the ponies and the large horse, calming them and waiting for Kili and Fili to take over. When you hear footsteps approaching, you turn expecting to see one of the two but instead Thorin, a hand resting on his belt while the other holds a bundle of folded cloths or other. A soft smile forms on his face and as he approaches you reach out and frame his face with your hands. His cheeks slightly colour beneath your touch and you smile at the rare sight.

You look past his shoulder and see the company, most laughing, throwing their filthy clothes at each other as they make for the pond, disappearing one by one in the shadows of the trees and seemingly disregarding the present dangers. All left but the hobbit and the wizard who are both smoking their pipes and sharing a laugh or two of their own.

Returning your gaze to him, you lean forward and place a shameless kiss on his cheek.

“You’re not properly dressed,” he says when you part.

Muffling a laugh, you reply: “Define‘proper’?”

He lifts up the cloths and unfolds slightly as you take them in hand. “These are Kili’s, they would probably fit you. Unless you’d prefer the spares Ori carry.”

Briefly, you imagine yourself in a kitted cardigan and mittens and huff amusedly. “This will suffice, thank you.”

Soon you see the dwarves emerge from behind the trees. You thank the gods they were clothed. And apparently some of them are holding fish in their hands.

“We’re low on food,” you hear them say, “Glad we caught these in the pond! They’re _wee_ things, no? But they’re nasty biters, they are!”

“I doubt that would last us all,” Thorin contradicts with a hint of mockery in his tone.

And they were so joyous of their catch that they didn’t even notice you leaving.

You pass through the the thick trees and the low-hanging boughs until you come across the pond; the water ripples and glistens in the moonlight. You lay down the clothes Thorin gave and your bow and quiver above it. Standing near the edge of the pond, you unbutton your now auburn shirt and it pools around your ankles. A stare burns at your back at you turn and see nothing but the dark foreboding trees. Slowly, you return your gaze to the water and unbind your bandages, letting them fall to the ground.

You take a deep sigh of relief and unbind the ones on your wrists. They fall to the ground and you see that your burns have healed; a smile tugs at the end of your lips at the sight and you silently thank Oin. You take your boots and belt off then undo the laces on your breeches. You toss them aside and walk into the water. When you’ve half-submerged yourself, you feel that burning stare once more; you turn your head and still see nothing.

A chill runs up your spine and you shake the feeling away as you submerge yourself completely and rise to the surface, holding your hair back with your hand. The water trickles down your chin and flattens your hair, washing away whatever remains of the dried blood and grime on your scarred body.  

Moments after, you move back to the shallow and sit down where the water brimmed just above your chest and you manage to rest your head against the ground. You look above and the leaves of the trees crop the sky. Letting out a sigh, you shut your eyes and feel the coolness of the water against your bare body.

Leaves rustle from behind but you couldn’t bring yourself to look behind and your head turns to the side whilst your eyes open half lidded. Your weary eyes are blurred and you could only see a figure resting against a thick shadow. You stir and turn your head the other way as you fall asleep.

 ¯

A dark room comes to light and a small child emerges from it, running past you, laughing. You eye her curiously and watch as she runs into a room that suddenly appears from behind. The little girl sits on the boarded floor and another slightly older girl approaches and kneels before the other.

It is Dianiea; of course she is. The other is most likely you in your youth.

You smile and walk closer to them, kneeling near them. You’ve always enjoyed dreams that never turned dark. An escape from a hopeless reality.

“Is papa coming home?” the younger you asks.

“Of course he is,” Dianiea replies, “I’m sure he won’t be long. But before then...why don’t I tell you a story?”

Her eyes light up and her mouth widens then she giggles with pure joy. She literally bounces in her place and cries out words of agreement and delight.

“Gandalf told me this one before he left,” she continues and you arch an eyebrow at the sound of the wizard’s name. “There once was a king and he ruled a great kingdom. He had a son and a grandson that would take over the throne when they get older. The kingdom was very successful but when they thought that they would always be that happy, a dragon came, destroyed the town, and took their kingdom!”

An aghast gasp escaped the little girl’s lips and you merely stared at your sister awestruck.

“The peoples of the kingdom traveled the lands searching for a place to stay. And they did find it. But they weren’t content. So, the king went off with his son and grandson and an army to take back another kingdom. Unfortunately, the king died in battle and the king’s son was nowhere to be found. The king’s grandson was very upset and he dreamt of the day when he would return home and reclaim his lost kingdom.”

“That’s a sad story...” the girl crawls toward her sister and embraces her.

“You know what?” Dianiea whispers wrapping her arms around her sister.

“What?” she replies in a softer tone.

“He also taught me a song about how happy everyone would be when the king’s grandson _becomes_ king,” steadily she sings the song with the words you could never forget and the little girl falls asleep in her arms.

Your gaze falls to the boarded floor and you attempt to take in what just happened.

“He was here, you know.” The sound of your _younger_ sister’s voice made you swiftly turn to her with a brow arched questioningly.

“Gandalf Greyhame,” she says, looking to you. “He was here, believe me.”

Water, you feel it pour from your fingers and you look to your hands as they turn into it. Spilling from your hands like waterfalls and filling the room, drowning the sudden void that surrounded you until you were neck deep in an ocean.

The void turned to a cropped sky embellished with stars and when you force your eyes open. You bring your hand to your forehead and the water pours from your face. Releasing a deep sigh, you stand and make your way out of the pond whilst you recall your dream vividly. Your wet bare feet brushes against the lush grass and you stop and look down at the clothes beneath your bow and quiver.

The fit was alright; quite loose but suitable. You fold up the sleeves of the teal shirt up to your forearm. The light armor is above this and the sleeves are shorter. You tighten your belt around your waist and you try on the sleeveless coat with fur lining the hem. You wear your own boots and breeches seeing that they aren't quite damaged. Looking at the clear water you stare at the strange sight that gazes back at you and chuckle beneath your breath.

You remind yourself of _Kili._ All you need is facial hair and perhaps you could be mistaken for a dwarf. 

A rustling in the thickets across the pond catches your attention. It ceases momentarily but then returns louder than before. Cautiously, you reach for your bow and fit an arrow to the string. Your grip on the handle increases steadily as the rustling continues ever louder.

Then a creature emerges from the thickets, beautiful and elegant as the night is the deer that begins to drink from the other end of the pond.

You release a deep breath of relief and watch the water ripple as the creature drinks.

“I told you it wouldn’t last.” Thorin’s voice elevates and the deer raises its head and its ears twitch at the sound of his voice.

You’re sick of cold mutton and raw rabbit that are already gone. You haven’t even eaten the fish and it’s also gone.

Sighing once more, you pull the string back and aim for the deer’s neck and mutter an apology in Rohirric before releasing the arrow. The deer falls to the ground and you see its body heaving as you circle the pond and make you way toward it. The arrow is embedded on the side of its neck and it stares at you with its gleaming coal eyes. Gently, you stroke the creature’s side whilst pulling the arrow out. You notice a cut near its hind and caress its neck with your thumb and you mutter another ample request for forgiveness as you pierce the arrow through its heart.

¯

“She’s been gone for a while,” Bilbo looks toward the thick trees for any sign of your coming.

“Why don’t you check on her then, Thorin?” Dwalin says mockingly and raises his brows at the king. A round of silent laughter begins.

“Be quiet.”

“Come on, I’m just—”

“No, I’m serious, be quiet.”

The camp falls into silence and soon a rustling emanates from behind the foliage the sound of heavy footsteps and a large thing being dragged across the grass sets them off. Metal clangs and clatters as they pick up their weapons and form their stance facing the part of the woods. You peer through the trees with your brow raised as you drag the deer by its hind legs toward the campsite. They merely stare at you with their weapons at the ready, even the hobbit held his blade but the wizard stood behind them all; an amused smile on his face as he leans against his staff.

“And I thought you all were getting used to my being here,” you say with such evident sarcasm. “Anyway,” glancing at the ground and back, you continue at length, “Brought you all dinner.”

It is not long before their aghast faces turned to more cheerful ones. And soon, Thorin finally agrees to light a fire and a small one at that. The sun yearns to rise and he deems that it will make no difference when there is light.

Gloin is kind enough to assist you in gutting and skinning the poor animal. However, he seems to have just sat there while you pass him the creature’s entrails and set aside the edible parts.

“No worries, lass,” he says when you ask him if he’s fine, “I’ve got a cast iron stomach! A little blood and guts won't make me sick!”

You smile and nod at him, slightly disbelieving him after his abrupt silence when you begin to skin the animal.

-

You laugh inwardly and smile contentedly. You couldn't be any more delighted to have a warm meal. And it is your delight that denies you your sleep. The night is almost to an end and most of the company are not-so-soundly fast asleep—but you’re adapting to it, more or less.

All you need to adjust to now are the dreams of Gandalf’s whereabouts scattered across your childhood. Only he could answer to that, however. Before you realize, you're sitting before the wizard attempting to conceal the hesitation in your tone. You ask him the honest reason for asking you to return and if he knows anything about your kin that you are not yet aware of. Despite your efforts, he says nothing leaves his expression blank. That is until you stand to leave with a look of utter disappointment.

His lips part and he reluctantly speaks, but he does and says: “The simbelmyne only grows on the burial mounds of kings,” nothing more. 

You leave him to smoking his pipe and you merely repeat what he said over and over in your head, but you still did not know what it meant. Before you could ponder over his words further, a blade is thrown at your feet and the flat of the sword lies against your boots. Taking the hilt in your hand and lifting it, you look up and see the conceited dwarf prince, Fili.

"What is _this_ for?" You ask; _Gandalf's riddle can wait_.

“It's for your next lesson.” he says plainly and unsheathes his twin blades, spinning them in his hands in attempt to impress or frighten you.

But it did none of the two.

Raising your eyebrows at him, you huff. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking after the ponies?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be learning how to fight with a sword?”

“She’s right, Fili,” Thorin steps in, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the attention falls on him; “But that does not make you wrong.” He adds, turning to you whilst the long gleaming blade unsheathes. “I’ll be taking over.”

His icy blue eyes never leave yours and a sullen grin plays on your face. Emotional pain is not your forte and so is swordsmanship, you know this. But they will see why you’ve survived for all these years, why you weren’t slaughtered by those appalling characters when you came across them.

If he thinks your feelings for him would render your drive to defeat him then he is wrong. After all, shutting down your emotions is what you do best. 

You lay down your bow and arrows and you roll your shoulders and crane your neck, the sound of them cracking fuels your twisted smile. You hold the hilt of the sword tightly in your hands whilst you form your stance. Slowly, you breathe; shutting your eyes and opening them, revealing how contracted your pupils are. You know he could see it—he could see the sudden change in your face, the drive that's burning in your eyes that he's never seen in you before.

You look like you're about to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I love animals and this made me a upset because of the deer, hence the title.  
> plus this is a filler chapter so I guess you know what that means...(if you don't it's okay, I don't either)
> 
> all mistakes are mine and thanks for reading!


	11. Horribly Pleasant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You huff, smiling, and you see a figure in the corner of your eye. Your head swiftly turns to the side and the dark figure shifts, heading deeper into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the previous chapter c:

He is not Thorin anymore.

Not in your eyes. He’s just another creature you despise, one that you truly wish to slaughter. If you didn’t think such he would just be a distraction and your fondness for him would just make you hesitate to deliver your strikes. And you did not think he would hold back just because you’re the one he’s against. You need not his pity.

The fifth fall seems to be the hardest blow to the ground. But you did not show any sign of agony or falter to get up. The increasing amount of bruises on your skin says otherwise, not like you’ve taken any regard for them. Each fall just makes you doubt if you honestly despise whoever you see him as.

You’ve at last adjusted to the stances and movement of the blade. But there is no stopping until you are victorious. The hilt of the sword is tight in your hands and you strike the first blows that were so easily evaded. The blade swings to your neck but it makes contact with the flat of yours. His attacks come in swifter than before and you make sure that none of them strike you. Spinning, you move behind him and he immediately faces you, delivering fierce blows and your blade clashes with his.

Slowly, you move back and circle him. Your chest heaves as you breathe and your gazes never leave each other. Then you lunge forward, literally beating your sword in immense irritation, but all they meet is his bright blade. Holding the blade with one hand you deliver another blocked strike and spin, momentarily catching him off guard with your back turned on him, jabbing your elbow against his shoulder and the edge of your hilt against his torso. He grunts between clenched teeth and seizes his opportunity.

The next thing you know: you come into contact with the ground again. He had kicked the back of your leg, making you collapse before you had the chance to move back. Ignoring the sudden taste of blood in your mouth, you grip your blade and stand. He’s farther away from you now and an arrogant smile plasters on his face.

He charges, and his vicious blows meet yours. You work through his defenses, pounding and lashing your blade against his. Until you see the fleetest moment of vulnerability and swiftly place your foot behind his and knock his blade away. With a hand on the hilt you strike his shoulder—the same one you jabbed. He moves back at the contact and you hook your leg behind his, making him collapse to the ground with a deep grunt. You spin and the tip of your blade meets the skin of his arched neck. You see his fallen blade out of his reach and the grim look on your face soon fades as you manage a smile.

He looks to you with a faint grin and you withdraw your blade as he stands. No longer is he an accursed creature you imagined him to be. You hear the company behind you groaning and laughing and seemingly tossing around bags of coins. You deem they put up wagers. And by the sound of it, most of them lost.

“Are you alright?” he asks and your smile widens; you miss the sound of his voice.

“Quite, and shouldn’t I be asking _you_ this?”

He picks up his blade and seethes it back into his scabbard. He chuckles lowly before turning to the horizon. “It’s almost dawn, we need to move.” he says and makes his way toward the company who, in fact, suddenly fell silent at his presence.

You huff, smiling, and you see a figure in the corner of your eye. Your head swiftly turns to the side and the dark figure shifts, heading deeper into the woods. Taking your bow and quiver, you lay down your blade—seeing that you have no scabbard to carry it with—and you glance at the company over your shoulder.

“I’ll be right back,” you mutter to no one in particular but none heard for they were too busy in their activities and none saw you head past the trees and delve deeper into the woods.

Cautiously, you move past the thickets and low-hanging boughs not wanting to make any abrupt sounds. Fitting an arrow to the string, a figure quickly passes behind you, rustling leaves and breaking wood in its path; you turn, pulling the string back and aiming at nothing but the dimly lit trees. The noise resounds and you’re unaware that you’re holding your breath. Slowly, you turn with your arrow still up and aiming at nothingness.

The noise ceases. And it brings you no relief.

You’ve turned fully now and still nothing.

A branch snaps and you wince, tightening your grip as you turn your heel to stare into a void. You groan. And your heart pounds against your chest in face of this unseen foe. Shutting your eyes, you keep your head high and control you breathing. Suddenly, you hear all—from the slightest rustling of the leaves in the wind to the faint speech of the dwarves in their camp. The ground vaguely shudders beneath your feet and you shift to the side as a large pointed blade smashes the ground where you stand. A large gruesome orc lifts the heavy blade with ease and he turns to you, his face distorted and scarred.

You aim for his head then lower your bow. “What are you doing here?” you ask and he snarls at you, baring his jagged teeth. Groaning inwardly, you repeat it in Black Speech. You know well that Bolg understands Common Tongue yet he never responds when you speak in it.

“You reek of _Dwarf._ You even wear their clothing.” He growls in the same language.

“You don’t expect me to wear your filthy armor. It reeks of orc.” You arch a brow and he scowls.

“Oakenshield is still alive.”

“I am aware of that.”

“You did not kill him while you had the chance,” he steps closer, the ire clear in his tone but you just hold your head higher. “Why should I let you live?”

“I doubt you could get your men closer than I have gotten,” your words sound as dark as the language itself, “And if you lose them, what _brilliant_ plan will you think of will ensure their deaths now that you couldn’t find them? Is that not why I am here?” You huff amusedly and watch his face turn sour. “And you didn’t answer my question. _Why_ are you here?”

“To ensure that you have not passed to their side,” he bares his teeth. “You are close to the Dwarf scum. How will I know that you will not fail?”

Taking in a short breath, you say; “I assure you, I will not. But I want double of the payment,” His grimace deepens and you add; “Do you want the task accomplished or not?”

At length he growls in agreement before walking past you, bumping against your shoulder for he saw the pleased smile you have. Then he stops.

“I expect him dead before he reaches the Mountain.”

Wounding your fingers tighter against the upper limb of your bow, you reluctantly nod. “Agreed.”

“We are not far behind,” he turns to you once more. “If you fail then your head will be the first one I take.”

You open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Instead you vaguely hear a call of your name. It’s Dwalin, for sure. They must be looking for you. A call for your name resounds, louder this time.

“Leave,” you mutter, “Or I’ll scream and alert them.”

His dead eyes mirror a dark and fierce ire; “You will die before you speak.”

The sound of your name being called grows louder.

“Do so and consider _you_ and your father dead. Thorin will no longer be in your grasp.”

He snarls and says: “A war is coming,” and makes his way past the thickets behind, “Do not forget who you serve.” He says finally and disappears into the darkness, the undergrowth and boughs crackle and snap beneath his heavy footsteps.

A dwarf emerges from the trees whilst he calls your name. He pauses when he sees you and hears the abrupt rustling. He moves to your side, wielding his axe and he says: “What was that? Was that an orc?”

“No,” you say immediately, “It was a _deer_. It got away.”

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“We’ll reach the forest before the sun sets, I am sure of it.” Gandalf says whilst he rides at the front of the company. You merely nod at his statement (only having heard him speak but hazily understood what he said) and move your hands up Thorin’s back, enjoying that his bow and quiver is on his lap once more and your hands are free to wander the scope of his back.

Your hands slide past the fur of his coat and to his shoulders. You massage the tense muscles, knowing that you punched him there and he groans with pleasure.

“You like that?” You ask playfully and apply more pressure. He releases a low moan in agreement. At length, you speak more gravely; “I’m sorry.”

He knows you meant the dark bruise that you caused and he simply nods, saying, “So am I,” he takes a breath and continues, “You don’t have to continue with this venture if you don’t wish to.”

Leaning forward, you nuzzle close to his neck and continue to massage his shoulders. “You’re going to have to do better than _that_ if you wish to rid of me,” you whisper teasingly and place a kiss on his neck, feeling it rumble to his low laughter. You rest your head near the nape of his neck and while his mirth fades you feel a tenseness grow in his stiffened shoulders. Your hands snake around his waist and rub against his chest. “Is something wrong?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head slightly and caresses his thumb against the back of your hand. You smile, marveling at how close you’ve become with him. Thorin, the King beneath the Mountain. You finally wrap your head around the thought. It makes you joyous beyond measure and it makes you scowl. You’ve sang about the king who long to return to his homeland and sit on his throne now you yearn for him.

_“Do not forget who you serve...”_

You grimace at the sound of his voice echoing in your ears. And that is yet another thing you wish to ignore henceforth.

Your hands wander around his chest, slipping into his coat and you imagine what lies beneath the thick layers of his clothes. The lust-filled thoughts fuel the agonizing heat mounting between your legs and earning a “What are you doing?” from him that you fail to answer. You feel his stiff muscles beneath his garb and the thought of undressing him fails to leave your mind. Then you feel a cold metal cap beneath your touch, it breaks your string of thoughts, and you take it out of curiosity.

Pulling away, you look to the silver flask in your hands. “May I?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says and you unscrew the flask and take a quick drink. The liquor slithers down your throat and you bury your head in his shoulder from the sheer bitterness of it and to hide the scowl tainting your face.

“That was _not_ ale...” you mutter and hear him laugh. Your hands return to his chest and he takes the flask from your hand.

“This was brewed in Ered Luin by my kin.” He says and takes a drink while you look up at him contentedly.

“I once heard that a man’s taste in wine is what defines him.”

“And what do you say of me?”

Your hand drifts to his cheek and you brush the back of your fingers against his beard, smiling and pondering of what words you shall use. “Strong,” you say at last, “And bitter,” you exchange a warm laughter with him. Licking your lips, you add; “With a sweet aftertaste.” You watch him laugh and his ever so charming laughter fills you with delight.

Pressing your lips to his neck, you whisper; “Why can’t you be like this always?” He places a kiss on your head and you feel his hand run through your hair.

“Rest,” he says, “You hardly slept.”

“I scarcely do when I’m with you. We’re too busy,” His sudden silence brings out a silent laughter from you and you add, “Talking,” with a mischievous smirk on your face, somewhat disappointed that he couldn’t see it.

“You wouldn’t mind riding with Dwalin then. I doubt you’ll be busy _talking_ with him.”

You fall silent and shut your eyes with your face still buried in his neck, inhaling his delectable scent as you pretend to be asleep. You imagine him smiling right now, pleased with himself. And his smile is not a thing you would forget—bright and precious like a gem but priceless beyond compare. It warms your heart to see him smile, to hear him laugh.

Oh, you love him, yes. But you dare not say a word to him yet—not yet. Perhaps, _soon_. You’ve yet to tell a man in his face that he’s a bastard more so to tell him you love him. Alright, you’ve done the first quite a few times but never at all the second. No matter—what only does is that you know he cares for you. But to what extent, you’re still well unaware.

And you’re oblivious to how he sees you. That you are his light. One that has been keeping him from the darkness of an eternal cavern of grief he’s been dwelling in for so long. You bring the life in his eyes, and though you are a constant reminder of the mistake he’s made he no longer cares. He’s been wrong once; what difference does it make if he is wrong yet again? _None_.

No one has shown their affection for him like you have. Each passing hour you spend with him seems like a life of endless wonder. You are nothing like the endless array of suitors that spend days attempting to catch his attention. You’ve caught it the first time he came across you and you’ve had it ever since. Like I said: you bring the life in his eyes, a glimpse of hope when there is none.

But little you know that it kills him, eating him away slowly as the hours pass, and an endless wonder also an endless pain.

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The dark forest grew nearer and nearer as if it is coming to greet all, or awaiting all’s arrival and withholding an evident doom to come. A silence came over all. Even the lands surrounding grew silent; no birds sang, and no deer or rabbits were to be seen. Soon all are before the eaves of this forest and the skies turn grey as if it is mirroring the forest’s obscurity. Even with the past events returning to haunt you, the forest appears more ominous now that the last time you emerged from it.

You are all watching the Wizard intently as he dismounts and walks toward the entrance of the forest, where what seems like large dead pale trees adorned with thickets and vines.

“The Elven Gate,” he says and looks about, he soon turns; “Here lies our path through Mirkwood.”

“No sign of the orcs,” Dwalin says with utter surety, “We have luck on our side.”

The Wizard looks to him with disbelief and seems quite aggravated at his choice of words. Then his gaze falls to the horizon. “Set the ponies loose,” he says, turning back to you all. “Let them return to their master.”

They all dismounted, grumbling at the thought of being on foot in a treacherous place. All but you who thought it would be better for them—the ponies, it is most likely that they would bolt if frightened and take whoever is riding them along this treacherous forest.

You carry your share of the load: a heavy pack and water-skin. Counting whatever remains of your arrows, you ensure that none of them are damaged and you inspect your bow for any as well. The thin fabric around the grip of your bow seems to be torn. Thinking that it would be far easier if it is no longer there you unwind the fabric, revealing the pale wood beneath. Then you see crisp edges along the face of the grip, there carved is an arrow, long and like nothing you’ve seen before with the head snaking from the tip.

It is probably nothing but a mere decor.

“This forest feels _sick_ ,” you hear Bilbo’s voice from behind and turn, “As if a disease lies upon it. Is there no way around?”

“Not unless we go two hundred miles North,” Gandalf says, walking further, “Or twice that distance...South.”

 _Up north there lies the Grey Mountains where goblins and other foul creatures dwell,_ you think and help Thorin undo the saddles, _No_ safe _path there. In the South there is Dol Guldur, where the air reeks most of orc and Bolg’s foul breath. And, yes, what lies before us: Elves and a seemingly cursed forest. No_ safe _path anywhere as it appears._

Wondering at the sudden silence of the hobbit, you turn towards him but he is looking out on the horizon. His hands are on his waist, you think he’s stressed. Then a bright light, swift it shines from his hand. Slowly, you move, trying to get a glimpse of what he’s holding.

His head shoots up and you back against Thorin.

“Is something bothering you?” he asks but you continue to watch the hobbit as he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You turn to Thorin and shake your head. “It’s nothing,” you say and face the pony, stroking it one last time before you release it with the others who are trotting away back to their master. All but Gandalf’s horse whose saddle is still being removed by Nori. You approach the dwarf, attempting to help him undo the straps on the saddle.

“Not my horse! I need it!” Gandalf calls, you stop and all turn to him as he strides away from the gate.

“You’re not leaving us?” It’s as if Bilbo speaks your mind.

“I would not do this unless I had to.” He says and you glance at Thorin who seems more infuriated than cheerless.

Gandalf looks to all before turning to the hobbit, marveling at how much he has changed since he left his home in the Shire. You silently wish you were with them in the beginning of the journey to witness it. Then Bilbo speaks of something he found. The wizard is very much curious and asks—twice. You arch a brow in confusion when Bilbo fails to speak. At length he says that it was his courage and you smile—and so does the Wizard who later tells him that he will need it before walking towards his horse.

And the rain fell, adding more gloom to this part of the venture.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the overlook,” Gandalf says as he cuts through the crowd; “Before the slopes of Erebor. Keep the map and key safe,” he stops and turns to Thorin, “Do not enter that Mountain without me.”

He merely nods and turns to you, his face blank and his mouth a flat line as the rainwater drips from his face. Sighing, you walk past him and tug against Gandalf’s cloak. He looks to you bright eyes and you whisper, hoping that none will hear but the Wizard; “You are aware that The Elven Path leads directly to the Elven King’s Halls?”

He reluctantly nods and you say, “This is not the Greenwood anymore, is it?” louder, not minding if all will hear.

“This is not the Greenwood _alone,”_ Gandalf says, “The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion. It will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray.” He mounts, “You must stay on the path,” he says and you give a half-hearted nod, returning to Thorin’s side. “Do not leave it. If you do, you’ll never find it again.”

Thorin takes your hand and with a straight face he turns away.

You hear the loud thunder of hooves from the Wizard’s horse and his reminder: “No matter what may come, stay on the path!”

Thorin cuts through the crowd and you follow. He turns back briefly, “Come on,” he says; “We must reach the Mountain before the sun sets on Durin’s day.” Soon, all came flooding behind you, “We’ve got one chance to find the hidden door.”

Wiping the water from your forehead, you look back at the light from the lands and turn away, now staring into the darkness of the forest.


	12. Revoltingly Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not long before you grow to hate this forest more than the last time you were here running away from it. Now, it appears there is far less hope of this path ever ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm went for a mix of Peter's and Tolkien's Mirkwood. And a bit of how I imagined it (since the forest probably affects each person differently)  
> It's gonna be fun(?) (A barrel of fun haha) weee!(?)  
> This is probably the weirdest chapter by far (well, because of the hallucination part)  
> Anyway, I hope you like it!

The path becomes a mounting darkness that never seems to end, weaving around among the trunks. And the entrance behind is now no more than a speck of light soon to be forgotten. Uneasiness grows each step all tread deeper into the forest; the sound of feet thumping pierces the silence and the trees around seem to lean in to listen. It is not long before your eyes grow accustomed to the dimness however you continue to gaze at the path before you and hope to find the end of it sooner.

Slim beams of light that somehow manage to pass through the thick leaves above and the snaking boughs and shines brightly before all but you cringe whenever you see them, wishing that they would be dimmer than they are. And you soon regret ever thinking that for the beams appear seldom and soon not at all.

It is not long before you grow to hate this forest more than the last time you were here running away from it. Now, it appears there is far less hope of this path ever ending. Thick layers of leaves and undergrowth cover the forest floor, crunching and snapping like brittle bones beneath each step. At times you forget that you are traveling with company and grow uneasy when you feel something grasping your hand and to be soon reminded that you are not alone when Thorin looks back at you. But each time you forget, it grows harder and harder to recall.

Suddenly, you feel as if a weight is lifted from your hands and you cringe and feel empty as if a child left alone in the dark and forced to carry on walking, praying for an end. Then you hear a voice that returns you to reality: “The path turns this way,” and you see a man with raven hair and follow him into the gloom.

The man continues to look back at you and you shudder wanting to run away but something—a voice—that lingers at the back of your head urges you to go on. Reluctantly, you listen and move forth.

It seems like ages have passed since you felt the wind against your face or the sun upon your skin. The dark is all you have now. But, no, there’s that man. And many other men who seem to appear out of the trees or the lifeless air. Sometimes, you feel as if they came from the ground and watch it intently as you walk.

_Am I going mad?_ You ask yourself and no one answers.

You can take no more of this. You don’t even know where you are anymore or why you’re walking with these men. You wish to yell but something won’t let you as if a hand is kept over your mouth and if you speak it will snap your neck.

Oh, but there is a hand.

It’s Death’s hand.

And he wishes to show you something but only if you don’t say a word. The ground begins to slope downward and two paths go in opposite directions. Death turns your head to one side and you see a light—a small bright golden light that enchants you and you slowly walk towards it.

You’re brought to a halt by an unknown force on your arm. A vague noise resounds and you turn back to find the man with raven hair holding your forearm. His face is dark like a never ending void. All their faces were. The noise fails to cease, it only grows louder.

It is a thud—something stabbing the ground.

And your name, the mere sound of it makes your uneasiness grow immensely. You turn back to the golden light to find that it is no longer there. Death must have taken it.  

Then you hear a clang, like metal striking cement and your gaze snaps toward the man whose face now grew dim but bright enough for you to see pale blue eyes. He grasps your hand and leads you to the other path where the other faceless men follow behind.

Slowly, you feel as if you’re being suffocated by the hand that keeps you from speaking. But the light, the golden light, you cannot keep your mind off it. And soon the golden light turns pale in your memory—a pale blue like the man’s eyes.

The next time you stopped—when all of you stopped, you pull the man closer to examine his dimly lit face. By the gods, you know you’ve seen him before. You dare not speak or Death will snap your neck. But once you hear his voice say your name a memory stirs and you did not hesitate to speak: “Thorin?”

You breathe as if you’ve held your breath for ages. _Thorin_ , you repeat it in your head over and over and you attempt to recall all that you thought you’ve forgotten: the journey, this forest, and their faces—all fourteen of them but it all came so sluggishly. You could remember nothing more than walking in the dark and cowering at the light with Thorin gripping onto your hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asks beneath his breath.

“I forgot.”

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Constantly you repeat the journey—once it finally returned to your memory after an eternity—you’ve been on in your mind, adamantly refusing to forget and be lost in the gloom once more. And it comes to a point where you grow sick of hearing the same thing time and time again that you prefer to be ignorant and lost in your own hallucination. Now that you wish to forget, you are cursed to remember.

There comes a time when you back against Gloin or Dori (those two being behind you quite a lot) and they would ask aloud who did that and look past you completely. It does not bring you much ease to know that the others are being affected by this forest as well and you envy them, preferring to be lost than aware. _Who knows what is going on in their heads?_ You wonder until you hear Bofur cry out: “Air! I need air!” and Oin: “My head it’s spinning, what’s happening?” You deem it won’t be soon before someone collapses and does not realize it.

Then all comes to a halt. You wonder if someone did collapse but you ignore it with a sudden lack of interest. The dark rims forming beneath your eyes greatly coincided.

“Keep moving,” Thorin says with his voice stern and incensed as he makes his way to the front of the line. “Nori, why have we stopped?”

“The path,” he says, “It’s disappeared!”

“What’s going on?” Dwalin asks from behind.

“We’ve lost the path!” shouts Oin.

“Find it!” Thorin turns back to you all, “All of you, look! Look for the path!”

It is hard enough to cling on to your sanity and now you’re all wondering about looking for a path that you doubt you’ll ever see again. _Exhaustion_ , it is just a plague that is cruel to keep you living long enough and makes you suffer until you die from it slowly. _Frustration,_ there is no explanation needed for the cause of yet another plague.

You’re lost.

The path is nowhere to be seen.

Provisions are low.

And you’re most likely standing in your deathbed.

With the unbearable mounting ache throbbing against your skull it just makes matters worse and harder to hear the voice in your head. Soon, all trail off to find the damned path, but as you see it: you are all grouped by the level of tolerance you have left. And with Thorin and Dwalin by your side and the eternal shrieking in your head you have no doubt you’re with the ones whose tolerance is now a myth. You look to the ground seeing nothing but dirt and leaves and muck and cobwebs that trails to the boughs above and tangles in them. Even if you tear this forest apart it would do no good such as Gandalf said of never finding the path again.

And yet you all still push through.

“I don’t know this place...” you hear a voice echo through the forest and discern him as Balin, “None of its familiar.”

“What hour is it?” Thorin asks, undoubtedly aggravated.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what day it is.” Dwalin replies, looking back and you press your head against a stone wall, clenching your teeth.

“Is there _no_ end to this accursed forest?!”

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The divided search for the path has come to an end and you’re following Thorin who is leading the company in the front of the line. Basically, you’re all just finding the end of the forest and hoping to come across the path in some stroke of luck. The beating of your heart echoes in your ears and grows louder than your breathing. And the choice of eating off your own hand is gradually becoming a sensible thought to you. But it is your tolerance that is spent not your sanity (which is quite close to that actually).

_This_ forest _is an eternal labyrinth of darkness that has no end. I will probably die before I see the end of it._

You thank the gods when you finally come to a stop and those behind just wander around in place as if searching for a miracle. Your gaze never leaves Thorin as he rests his arm against a stone and his forehead against his arm. Not wishing to bother him, you lie back against the rock near him and stare into the growing void before you.

“Look,” you hear Dori say from afar, “A tobacco pouch. There are dwarves in these woods.”

“Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, no less,” Bofur says, “This is exactly the same as mine.”

_“Dwarves?”_ you mutter and take a deep breath, “I didn’t know there were Dwarves here...” your voice trails off and you feel Thorin’s fingers entangle with yours. You hope he doesn’t come across these Dwarves. They might be trouble.

“Because it _is_ yours, you understand?” says the hobbit, (you mutter to Thorin, “Bofur’s a Dwarf?” but he grips your hand tighter) “We’re going around in _circles_. We are _lost!”_

“We’re not lost,” Thorin snaps and faces the hobbit, his hand slipping from yours, “We keep heading East.”

“But which way _is_ East?” asks Oin, “We’ve lost the sun!”

“That makes no sense! You can’t lose the sun!” Gloin yells.

Groaning, you follow Thorin past the grumbling crowd and amidst the enraged voices you hear a faint one saying: “That’s it, we have to—” but Bifur suddenly pushing you against your shoulder makes you snap and you take a hold of his cloak and slam him against Dwalin. Both rapidly cursed in another language and Bifur threatened you with a shaking fist in the air whilst he yelled in his language. The outburst of voices resounds around you and drives you mad.

“What was that?” Thorin mutters, being the only one not starting a row, yet no one hears and he rounds at all, “Quiet! All of you!” Letting Bifur’s garment slip from your grasp, you turn to the king mortified and notice that a sudden silence comes over.

“We’re being watched.”

His words petrify you. The thought of having either Bolg or the Elves watching makes you shudder. One wishes you to kill him and the other wishes your death. And either scenario is interchangeable. Taking a deep breath, you anxiously eye your surroundings whilst taking your bow and loosely fit an arrow to the string.

Looking to Thorin you whisper: “How did you know we’re being watched?”

“I heard them,” he replies in the same tone.

“What did they say?”

“I couldn’t understand. But they were whispering.”

Sighing, you close your eyes and nod. Relying on your sense of hearing you listen to every crack and rustle, straining to hear anything unusual. But with the slight clashing of metal and other unnecessary noises from the dwarves behind, you couldn’t concentrate.

“Quiet!” you harshly whisper and shut your eyes tighter.

Gloin groans and mutters, “We’re not saying—”

“You’re all breathing too loud. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Is that too hard to ask?” With their residing grumbling noises, you pull the string of your bow back and listen to song of the forest. And that song is disturbed by a sudden loud creak and a thud before you. Opening your eyes you see a small branch before your feet. You slowly turn to Thorin who eyes you cautiously.

You feel your heart beat against your chest and you anxiously look up to find a swarm of fanged eight-legged beasts surrounding you all. They bare their fangs and screech whilst you release an arrow at one of them. That is that last thing you remember before everything grew dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Cuts it here// To be continued... in part 2


	13. Beautifully Repulsive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your hands lay limp at your sides whilst a giant arachnid wound its thick threads of web around you. Then you awoke and thrashed against the sudden tautness. The beast hissed and you could see its fangs through the web over your face and it injected a poison through your arm, rendering you weak and slowing your breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this quote from Bilbo would apply to the story right about now:  
> "You asked me once if I told you everything there is to know about my adventures. And I can honestly say I have told you the truth. But I may not have told you all of it."

Sitting in a large chamber shining with golden light, a long table lay before you, laden with plates of various meats and pastries. Tankards of ale and bottles of wine lay beside the plates that bordered the table. And there is one before you with such succulent lamb meat towering on it, making your mouth water. You’ve forgotten the last time you ate. Oh gods, you could devour the entire table if you must.

You raise your hand from the arm of the chair but it would not move. Webs covered your arms, sticking your skin to the arm of the chair. You attempt to lift the other with all your strength but to no avail. The webs seem to secrete from your skin and if you rip it out from the chair you doubt that your skin would stay where it is. Struggling in your place, you scream for help but your voice merely echoes off the walls of the chamber. As you sweat the substance grow thicker until it shrouded your arms and legs _._ You scream once more but no sound comes. The webs secreted from your face and over your mouth, leaving you thrashing in your chair with silenced cries and leaving you to suffocate.

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Your hands lay limp at your sides whilst a giant arachnid wound its thick threads of web around you. Then you awoke and thrashed against the sudden tautness. The beast hissed and you could see its fangs through the web over your face and it injected a poison through your arm, rendering you weak and slowing your breathing. But you dare not give up. You continue to kick your legs against the blanket of web covering you until another arachnid came from the gloom and injected you with a poison of its own.

The second dose slowed your heart rate tremendously. Struggling to breathe, your limbs grow limp and you lay unmoving but still very much awake whilst the spider swiftly spun and wrapped you in a second coat of web. It hung you upside down and you feel the blood rushing to your head and your breathing slowing further until you could not bear it any longer and lost all consciousness.

A high pitched shriek awoke you a second time from dreams of endless banquets and Thorin. Secretly you had wished you never woke and enjoyed the imaginary food and wine and the image of Thorin that stayed by you whilst you ate. It’s horrible to realize that the lamb’s meat you ate is not real at all. There it is again, the shriek, followed by a string of harsh twisted whispering noises. Clearly, those were not the dwarves.

Stifling on your breaths, you attempt to move your arm but regrettably fail. Your muscles are still weak from the poison that now runs through your veins. You hate this. You hate being vulnerable. You hate this bloody forest—these spiders.  And you most hate to be eaten.

You feel lightheaded. The blood is rushing to your head slow, like your heart beat. Is there no other option than to sleep? Of course there is not but you’d rather die awake than asleep. At least the tip of your nose sticks out and you manage to scarcely breathe. Then, you feel your bow and quiver against your back but you have no strength to retrieve it. Even if you did, it would be of no use if you could not get out of this prison of web.

You cannot imagine what Thorin and the others are going through. If they are already dead or eaten. Or just asleep and unaware. You wish for nothing more than his—and _their_ —safety despite what the orc wants. Another thing you despise. Sluggish filth.  

A myriad hissing began, sharp, and it pierced your ears. And dark figures—the spiders—pass over you, their legs poking at your body and some looked to you with their eyes red and glowing and their fangs dripping with venom before soon proceeding. You hear a muffled yelp and you hold in your breath in aghast. _Someone’s being eaten_ , is the first thing that comes to mind.

A sharp pain grew on your side. It’s as if you’re hit by a branch and the sound of creaking and cracking wood resonated from below. Shivers ran down your spine and you soon forget the pain but you could see the hissing arachnids swiftly approaching you and examining your state. Their red eyes gleaming at you and grow close to your face. You hold your breath in fret and soon they left to when a loud thud came from below.

But the muffled cries did not cease and it brings you no ease. And that is when you hear it. The sound of a blade clashing and loud hissing and creaking. The magnificent sound of a blade raises your heart rate and unfortunately allows the blood to rush faster into your head. Relaxing your muscles, you shut your eyes and slow your breathing, waiting to be saved by whoever it is.

Then a loud thud comes, not far. Followed by a next one, louder.

You’re unsure whether to smile or grieve. That thud may be a branch or a spider’s corpse—or your savior’s. But those thoughts were set aside when the glorious sound of a blade returns, followed by an ample thuds and creaks. The sound of a swift slashing blade grows nearer and the next thing you know you’re falling slowly to the ground.

The landing is not a comfortable one, noticing that you landed on one of the dwarves but that did not matter now. Squirming and kicking above him with all your might until you roll off him and thrash about. Alas your strength has yet to return to its full capacity. At last you rip through the cloak of web and breathe as if you’ve not in an eternity.

“Where’s Bilbo? Bilbo!” Bofur cries as he looks around and his gaze falls on you.

“Bilbo!” you shout and rip the web from your face. You hear a faint cry but then the hissing you’ve groan sick of.

Kindly, Ori helps you up and the web on your clothes tear further as you stand. Dwarves from behind urge you to run and when you look back you see the the vicious spiders baring their fangs as they make their way toward you all. You run with the dwarves through the dark forest adorned with webs. Your eyes are in desperate search for Thorin whilst you take your bow and fit an arrow to the string. Aiming and shooting at each spider you see, sending them tumbling to the ground and curling up dead. But the hissing and snarling would not cease, more spiders came.

 The dwarves hold their weapons in hand and fought against the beasts that continued their onslaught. You went forth running and shooting arrow after arrow at the arachnids, you aimed precisely beneath their heads or their mouths or, if lucky, below their abdomen. As you bring your hand back to get another arrow, you notice the sudden decrease of them. Within that moment a spider came hissing from behind.

Swiftly, you shout for a weapon whilst hanging your bow over your shoulder and the closest dwarf, Nori, tosses an axe and you leap and grasp the helve in midair. Turning—the spider is approaching fast—you charge at it, the axe lowered behind you and it bares its fangs whilst you swing the axe to the air and, once close enough, bring it down upon the spider’s head. It fell to the ground; a thick yellow fluid oozes out of its head. You grip the helve with both your hands and attempt to heave it out, but the blade is far too deep in. You hear a loud hiss and a deep thud, turning your head you see a spider above Bombur, its jaws widening as it lashed at the dwarf who held it in his hands attempting to push it away.

Then six dwarfs, three on each side, took the arachnid’s legs and pulled it apart, your gaze returns to the wedged axe and you kick the helve in irritation. Something cracks and the spider sudden lashes out, and you move back in aghast. You reach for your bow but before you could take an arrow the beast falls to the ground, an arrow through his head. You look back to see the dwarf king wielding his bow.

Returning your bow over your shoulder, you run to him and tosses you a blade. More spiders came, they ceased to give up. They came at you pairs at a time; Thorin keeps his bow and strikes the beast from close range. Gripping the hilt of your blade you pounded your blade against the beasts. Battle cries and hissing mixes in the air. It is not long before Thorin tackled one of the spiders, and Dwalin began beating one with his fist, and you with your blade.

“This way, hurry!” Gloin cries at the opening to the gloom. You immediately follow the dwarves rushing to some sort of safety. Weapons still held high and at the ready as you all make your way through the trees. Thorin finds his way to the front of the company and you follow not far behind him. He looks to check if all is well, his bright blade still in his hands and a loud roaring hiss emanates from the front; an arachnid bares its fangs and raises its front legs to threaten its newfound prey. All raise their weapons and you watch as Thorin’s gaze shoots up.

 _No_.

You grip the hilt so hard, your palms grew red. The spider falls and an elf emerges from the gloom, keeping his blade and wielding his bow. All lunges forward to attack the elf but come to a sudden halt when a sound you’re all too familiar with echoes, the sound of arrows being pulled back the bowstrings. The elf glares at Thorin who gives a cold and disgusted stare of his own. And who says you did not do the same.

He pulls his arrow further back and says, “Do not think I would not kill you dwarf, it would be my pleasure.”

Groans emanate from the company who began to lower their weapons not wanting to risk the life of their king. But you say nothing and drop your sword to wield your bow, aiming it at the elf. When you pull the string back, the elven guards bordering the company threaten you in their tongue and even if you understand them you did not regard their warnings. If that elf threatens Thorin yet again he will die with no regret or doubt in your mind.

Thorin lowers his weapon and gestures you do the same but you do not heed him and pull the arrow back, wounding your fingers around the grip so tight that the embellishment beneath it embeds in your fingers.

“You,” the golden-haired elf says with such ire in his tone as he aims his arrow toward you, “We meet again, filth.”

“I will kill you this time, I swear on it!” you snap, feeling your blood boil at the sight of him. You approach him, not caring for the elves on the side threatening you with their arrows.

“You will die before you could loosen that arrow.”

Balin mutters your name and urges you to submit before this gets out of hand. But you hesitate to do so. That is, until, you hear a cry and look behind, lowering your aim, and seeing Fili search for his brother. “Kili!” he cried. The dwarf in question is beneath a vicious spider and there is nothing you all could do but watch for the elves enclosed you all. You turn to the elf in front of you and attempt to raise your bow once more but stopped by Thorin’s hand. Glancing at him halfheartedly, you see his expressionless face.

“We are outnumbered,” he mutters beneath his breath, “If I were you, I would not risk my life to do something foolish.”

Sighing deeply, you grimly loosen the arrow and place it back in your quiver. Then you hear a cry for a dagger. And a she-elf refusing to give him one. But you dare not break your gaze with the elf before you. And it is not long before Kili is being hauled back to the company. The elves surrounding you all closes in and the blond one moves back to speak with the she-elf. You’ve seen them the last time and you recall vaguely that the blond one is Lego—something. His name is Legolas, but you did not know this, and the she-elf is called Tauriel, another detail you’re not yet aware of.

“Search them!” he shouted and some the elves lower their weapons and began rummaging through your cloaks, searching for weapons and whatever valuables they may come across. An elf took your bow and quiver and you scowled at him, wishing to impale an arrow in his throat. You look to the ground to the blade you dropped. He immediately kicks it aside and another elf takes it. He asks in his tongue for any more weapons as he inspects your cloak further. You say there is none in the same tongue and notice a questioning glance from Thorin. Turning you around, he inspects beneath your collar and when he soon finds nothing, he pushes you aside and you growl. Then you hear Gloin yell out about something private and Legolas says something about his brother and a goblin mutant.

Your gaze falls to Thorin who resists on giving his blade and after being stripped of all weapons like all the rest he turns to you, the rage evident across his face and yours. And he seems more all the more infuriated when the Legolas takes his blade in his hands.

“This is an ancient Elvish Blade,” he says in his tongue whilst he inspects the runes on the blade, “Forged by my kin.” He raises the blade and holds its hilt, admiring its magnificence. Returning to Common Tongue he asks “Where did you get this?” and his face turns sour while he turns to Thorin and lowers the blade near his face. You jerk forward, wanting to beat him, but the king’s hand moved quicker and clenched your wrist, stopping you for the time being.

“It was given to me.” He said with his voice soft but enraged. 

The elf looks to him with utter disgust and doubt. The blade swings and the tip points to Thorin’s neck, if he didn’t tighten the grip on your wrist to stop you, you’re not sure what you could have done. “Not just a thief,” the elf says, “But a liar as well,”—reverting to Sindarin—“Take them!” he swings the blade away and your wrist slips from Thorin’s grasp.

The guards close in further and urge you all to follow their path, shoving most in that direction and when they lay their hands on you, you pushed it away in disgust. Vaguely, you overhear Bofur whispering something to Thorin but fail to understand it. But that did not bother you now. It was bad enough that you got lost in a damned forest and attacked by large spiders. Now, you must face the elves whose egos can overwhelm the entire span of the forest if it was not contained within their bodies.

“What happened—the last time you were here?” Thorin asks shamelessly and you don’t bother look at him. Instead, you sigh and look to the ground, mustering whatever remains of your strength to finally speak of this _incident._

Then, at last, you mutter: “I stole treasure...” your voice trails off and you know that in his silence he knows that you are not yet done. “And I killed all the guards that got in my way.” You turn to face him, the lament clear in your eyes but not in your face that stays impassive, “Then I sought out to kill the king and his son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a filler chapter c:  
> And the so-called 'Special Guest' is sort of obvious, now, I know. I just considered him as such because I was surprised and more than happy when first I saw him in the DoS Trailer. And I think Legolas really cool, actually; I guess he's just going through an "I-hate-dwarves" phase in this Age. And I like Thranduil too so...expressing "your" hatred for them is actually hard for me.


	14. Magnificently Insignificant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dungeons. The pale stone walls and iron doors in a labyrinth of paths and stairs, lit by lanterns across the walls and streams of water fell from above. Appearances are deceiving, indeed.

It is not long before you all are lead hastily across a bridge and swift flowing water beneath. And the vast stone gate opens but all you see is the gate of hell welcoming you into its flame. The guards around look to you with discerning eyes but you kept your head high with pride even if there is none.

Through the rather narrow paths weaving across the woodland, you are all lead; past the fraudulent Elven King who sat upon his throne bearing his _righteous_ head. You could sense his arrogance from where he sits. Your mind overflows with ways of how to wipe away the self-satisfied look across his face to see you under his power. His condescension is much more than what Thorin has shown you before and he has not spoken yet.

Just as you turn to Thorin, trying to set yourself at ease, a guard ahead leads him astray from the rest of you. You attempt a protest but the guards push you onward. It pains you that you could do nothing of it but merely look back and watch Thorin as he makes his way toward the Elven King and the rest of you to the abysmal cavers below.

The dungeons. The pale stone walls and iron doors in a labyrinth of paths and stairs, lit by lanterns across the walls and streams of water fell from above. Appearances are deceiving, indeed. Guards divide amongst themselves and shove you all into individual cells, others are fortunate enough to have another with them.

They took your coat and armour—and also the other’s, earning the most earnest scowl from you since you were just given them. Elves bare their impassive faces and slam and lock the doors but you don’t bother dissenting.

You know that there is no chance of you—or the others—breaking down those doors. And the chance of escape is slimmer. Apparently, that would still not stop them from attempting. The forest seems more like a haven as each second passes. Sighing, you sit yourself down against the wall, your legs flat against the ground. And you sullenly shut your eyes and listen to the sound of pounding against iron and deep grunts and clamor of the dwarves echoing off the walls.

“Just leave it!” The yelling ceases almost immediately at Balin’s yell. And slowly you open your eyes, realizing that he is not far and how right he is. “There’s no way out!” he adds, “This is no _orc_ dungeon,” (— _‘Yes, an orc dungeon is far more pleasant’_ you think—) “These are the halls of the _Woodland Realm_. No one leaves here but by the king’s consent.”

It is an unfortunate verity. And another is that it is by the king’s consent if you should live to see tomorrow or a more horrid fate.

Your mind races through thoughts that led to another and some that scarcely related to the last. If you are to rot in this cell alive or dead—if Thorin is left here with his vision of reclaiming Erebor slowly fading into nothingness—if you will ever tell him of your deceit—if you might ever tell him that you care for him immensely. You’re unknowing of what is harder: revealing your treachery or that he is dear to you.

What would Gandalf say?

Oh, _Gandalf._

You don’t know why you’ve nearly forgotten about the wizard and his restless attempt to make you join the company and to have you return when you nearly left. You know not much of what he may be thinking but you deem he would urge you to do what you feel is best. And despite the advice you’ve given yourself in the wizard’s place, your pondering has lead you to realize that you know very little of the wizard himself. You know clearly why he made you come along, but why make you stay? If it is for the sake of yourself and Thorin’s, then you might just manage a smile. But, if not, what then?

There are a many things concerning Gandalf that you are not aware of. His intentions, to you, seem vague. And as much as you are thankful for him, you still doubt that he is telling you everything.

But no one is ever completely transparent. Not even Thorin.

Releasing a deep breath, you bend your legs and wound your arms around them, resting your forehead against your knees. The turmoil within you is unleashing all its wrath, leading you to believe that they’re insincere when you know that you are no better. The chaos is unbearable and it’s leaving mounds of guilt in its path.

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Thorin struggles beneath the grasp of two Elven Guards leading him down the path to the dungeons where his company lay. You were too deep beneath your guilt to even look up at him or see his relentless protests. But you could hear his breaths and the battering and clanking of armor. He is shoved into his cell, no doubt; you listen to his boots skid across the floor then the iron door slamming behind. And soon the mocking sound of keys clashing against one another. He is closer than you thought, but you’re unknowing that he did not notice you.

“Did he offer you a deal?” asks Balin and you listen curiously.

“He did,” he says plainly, to be soon followed by a curse in his language and all you understood is: “I told him he could go—him and all his kin!”

By Balin’s sudden silence you could tell it was very much uncouth. And you loved him for that, letting you see a shred of light beneath the morass of remorse.

Balin fakes a smile at the king’s words. He knows that there is little hope left for escaping especially after his king apparently told Thranduil that he could go pour excrement on his head—him and all his kin. The thought of giving Thorin a sermon of how to put aside one’s grudges when all’s freedom is on the line fails to leave his mind. But you, in fact, don’t know this and you are merely trying to piece together whatever it is Thorin could have said. And you smile, despite the guilt eating at you, at your clever guesses of his curse, since you ended up with Thorin telling the _King_ to eat excrement. However, your moment of amusement does not last.

“Well, that’s that then,” Balin begins to accept the facts and nod, then his smile fades and an impassive look tainted his face. “The deal was our only hope.”

But Thorin, for once, remains optimistic regardless of the odds against you all, “Not our _only_ hope.”

You could imagine the glimmer in his eyes when he said that. Even you are lost in doubt of escaping. And yet he still believes. The last thing you would want is to think against him, but you don’t see what he is putting his faith in. You are all in this wretched place and in the same situation as everyone else. Even the hobbit.

_The hobbit._

You haven’t seen him all this time, have you? Bofur called for him but he never answered, that was before someone had cut you all loose. He probably escaped _miraculously_. There is no doubt in your mind that he is here _somehow_. Any other thought contradicting it is ignored. You have faith in him. And you always will have. Your smile returns in all its glory as you raise your head and rest your chin on your knees.

_There is hope after all._

_But will he get here before it’s too late?_

You know that he is here and he _will_ save you all but _time_ is what you lack. The king is surely planning your demise like you for his. You believe that he smiles at the thought of your death and you would at his when the time comes. As much as you wish to end him, it just doesn’t feel worth it anymore. He’s not worth killing, he was never worth it. As it is you never intended to do so, the orcs needed to know your allegiance.

It was a mistake accepting the task to kill Thorin, you know that; like the past decisions that fail to leave you be. The men who offered you a price to kill a dwarf were never referring to Thorin. And you when you searched, he was never fount all but the ones who killed him many years ago. They showed no mercy or remorse. You were captured kept in total darkness for days until you grew half-mad thinking of what they would do to you.

You spent so long there that you could hear voices in your head in Black Speech. So dark and sinister. Each word was accursed like they came from the depths of Barad-dur. And it took you an eternity to realize that it was only one voice just repeating that one verse. Then soon it urged you to swear your loyalty or let this place become you’re tomb. You were aghast to have understood just as you were when you realized you were given a chance to live—or die.

You were so young then—young and foolish. And you chose to live but died that day.

You would wonder why they chose you. But when he made you slaughter all those people: Men, Elves, and Dwarves, you knew that he needed someone unsuspecting. Then, he gave you an assignment, a rite of passage to prove your devotion. As if all the others did not matter. All you had to do was kill the Elven King and his son.

And yet you _failed_. You were hunted down by those elves through the forest until you reached the borders of the south where Dol Guldur stands. They weren’t foolish enough to follow you there but they weren’t smart enough to think that you would live. But you did not suspect that either. You thought that they would kill you or far worse. But instead you were given another task. Your final task and chance: to kill Thorin Oakenshield.

And if you fail this then you would surely die.

You’re laughing—a silent laughter where no sound unfetters. You don’t know why but you are. It is perhaps you pity yourself and you’re angered at those lesser beings that control your fate. And you realize that the laughter is to stop yourself from screaming.

¯

Bilbo is nowhere to be seen and the chance of your survival is wearing thin. You’re merely sitting there waiting for death to come and watching the hours pass by and your hope slowly fading away. It is now when you decide to do something imprudent.

Standing from your place, you reluctantly move to the bars and lean against the wall near them. What should you even say to him? That you’ve been in league with the enemy since the beginning? That you’re sorry? What would he say, what would he think after all this?

Your lips part to call his name but no words come out. Normally his name would roll off your tongue, now it’s like you have to choke before you could say it. And when you finally mustered all the strength you could manage, it came out barely a whisper.

No response.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and call his name again, louder, trying to mask your fret. Now, he immediately responds with your name. And you feel paralyzed. Suddenly more fearful of what you might say than of what your fate might be. Your hands tremble like your parted lips and you blurt out your words; “Thorin,” Your voice cracks and his silence troubles you greatly, “I have to tell you something and it matters not if everyone else hears it.” You grow silent, paralyzed once more and suddenly feeling as if it would take you years before a sound utters from your lips.

“And what is that exactly, filth?”

Your shaking hands turn into steady fists at the sound of Legolas’s voice. He appears from around the bend with three guards trailing behind him. Your eyes meet with his locked in a grim stare. Your fear is just replaced by resentment and it is clear in your voice when you say: “This does not concern you.”

“And you actually believed I was concerned,” he arches a brow and gestures the guards toward your cell. Your shoulders tense and you step away from the bars as the guards approached. Curiously, you watch them whilst they unlock the gate and force you out of the cell, gripping both your arms tightly around their armoured hands. You look about, glancing at the worried and aghast faces of the dwarves as the guards and the prince lead you away from the cavernous dungeons.

Their armour clangs and beats the ground and swords clash against their legs as they step. The other guard places himself behind you with his blade ready in his hand. And Legolas treads lightly in front with his blades in their scabbards crossing on his back. Your eyes wonder their scope and you could tell that they were bringing you back. And you dare ask: “Where are you taking me?”

“To my father.”

 _Thranduil._ You deem he would be more than delighted to see you again.

Soon, you are brought up the steps and find yourself in a platform brimming with pale stones where guards with faces hidden beneath their helmets stand. And the _great_ Thranduil sitting his high-risen throne adorned with large elk antlers. He didn’t even bother himself to stand before you, merely greeting you with his prosaic stare. With a single wave of his hand the guards loosen their grip and leave you be and his son did not hesitate to walk away with the three guards following behind him in such a uniform motion.

The vast cavern that is the Woodland Realm overwhelms you with its space, making you dive into a false sense of freedom. This place is the epitome of all things putrid hidden beneath the mask of a glorious kingdom which ceases to exist.

His eyes did not leave you. Those brooding blue eyes that just reminded you of another but you did not dare part with it and show your fear. Then his face is veiled with a thin mask of a smile.

“A thief in broad daylight, a ruthless murderer,” he says, “Hidden beneath such an _innocent_ exterior. But inside you are more rancid than a corpse. I am surprised that you wondered off into these woods yet again. I doubt you seek justice for your wrong doings—and with a pack of dwarves. Tell me, was it _treasure_ he promised you? You were always a greedy filth.”

“Not as much as you.”

Metal clamors as you speak, the guards had moved toward you with their spears pointed at you. But the king holds his hand high to stop them and you deem they would have attacked if he didn’t. Slowly, he lowers his hand and the guards return to their post as if they were always there.

“So it _can_ speak _._ But I’d prefer you with your mouth shut,” he pauses for a moment and scowls at your arched brow. “I’m just wondering why they haven’t thrown you away like the rubbish you are. And why you decided to partake in their quest. Unless,” his sudden change of demeanor makes you turn away for the most fleeting of moments. But that merely coincides with his thoughts, “You _care_ about the dwarf.”

Your gaze falls to the ground but it no longer matters, “Which one?” you say with a steady voice, “There are thirteen of them.”

“So, you _do_ care,” he flashes such an arrogant smile. “You know of whom I speak. The so-called _King_.”

Reluctantly you turn to him once more. Silence comes over you; does it matter if you contradict? You doubt he would believe you and think of it more from your dissent. What does not matter is if he knows. He can do nothing of it.

“It’s a shame,”

But break your spirit.

“You actually thought that he would ever feel the same. His heart lies beneath his hoard of gold. He cares more for his _quest_ and the _Arkenstone_ than he would ever would for the likes of you. A mere peasant.”

You shake your head. A rage pools where your sorrow lies and it takes you every ounce of your strength to hold both back.

“I doubt he knows who you truly are. And once he finds out, he would be disgusted.”

“You sicken him more than I. _That_ I am sure of.” you snap ever so _politely_ and seal it with a smile.

“Says the one who lives amongst orcs,” for the first time his wicked gaze leaves you and he waves his hand away. Immediately, two guards have you in their grasp; you haven’t even had time to be furious with the King of Bastards. Oh, how you wish to scream at him but apparently a shred of decorum still exists within you. However, not enough to make you cease glaring at the king—an icy glare that shows no ounce of remorse.

You are dragged down the flight of stairs with no visible sign of guilt and soon you were far from the Elven King’s sight. A brief moment passes when Thranduil at last stands from his throne and walks down the stairs to the platform where a guard steps forth to meet the king.

“Make the execution as swift as you can,” he says drearily, sounding as bored as one who speaks Entish. “It’s not worth wasting my time. And I want the dwarf _King_ to witness its demise firsthand.” the guard nods, and the king adds, “But _not_ tonight. The Feast has barely begun and I don’t want my halls to reek of its foul odor.”

“When then, my lord?” asks the guard, trying to restrain his fervent tone.

“The upcoming dawn,” he says and the guard nods once more before he is sent away.

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Here you are again, staring into the metal bars just before you are shoved inside. But then a voice cries out in Sindarin, telling the guards to cease. You raise a questioning brow as you are turned to meet yet another Silvan Guard wielding a long blade in his hand.

 _“The King has requested her execution. I myself will do the honor.”_ he says in his tongue and the guards holding you approach him, heaving you along with them. As you move closer to the guard you see a cell adjacent to him where Thorin stands behind the bars watching anxiously. And your heart sinks as he turns to you with his bright blue eyes filled with concern that you’ve never seen from him before. The guards holding you bring you down to your knees whilst the discrete Silvan wounds his fingers around his blade tighter.

All who had you in their sight watched curiously and fretfully, some could not bring themselves to look. But you only looked to Thorin with a smile—a gentle smile—for a goodbye. And it pains you knowing that you could not give him a proper one.


	15. Propitiously Forlorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You could see Thorin’s hands turning to fists and his back tensing and hear his slow breaths caught between rage and grief. Then you shut your eyes, sheltering in the darkness that always watched over you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I owe you one c:  
> and trigger warning: not-so-graphic torture/violence. but tell me if it's too torture-y or violent for the tags.  
>  ~~I'm surprised I got this far~~

Pain.

Blistering pain.

But you feel nothing.

There is nothing left to feel, your skin is bruised and numb and your blood is dripping off you like sweat, pooling beneath as you stare into it like a crimson mirror. There is a pain that cannot be spoken and you feel as if you’ve already bit your tongue off. A sharp agony hits your shoulder and your body crashes to the ground, just to be held up once more by the two Silvans. Your head hangs low and the blood from your head drips down to your chin, passing your lips striking you with the sudden taste of metal. The pommel of his blade meets the bruised skin of your cheek, leaving you to cough the thick coppery fluid. But after his strike, your gaze snaps back to him. A lifeless stare that froze on your face.

It is as if you are looking towards him and everyone else at once. You could hear his ragged breaths and see his shoulders heaving. You could see the dwarves with their backs turned, not bearing to see your agony any longer. You could see Thorin’s hands turning to fists and his back tensing and hear his slow breaths caught between rage and grief.

Then you shut your eyes, sheltering in the darkness that always watched over you.

The cold edge of the blade slides slowly against your neck until it was only the point that pressed against your skin. And you no longer feel the harsh metal against your neck but a sudden jolt of pain washes over you as a force digs into your right chest. Your eyes pry open as you tremble and a raspy cry unfetters from your lips. The point of his blade turns within you, drilling through the flesh near your shoulder and tearing your muscles. The tip is caught itself between your collar bone and the mounting force makes you tremble beneath the blade.

He still did not withdraw.

Tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes as he pushes the blade further into your bone until it cracks and you cry out in pain. Your chest heaves and your writhe beneath the guards who restrained you. His blade flashes before you, coated in your blood and he wipes the flat against your clothes to rid of the blood. Your fingers curl as you gaze at his blade. It was not your bone that was broken; it was the tip of the blade.

Knowing that looking at your wounded shoulder would cause you more harm than good, you avert your eyes from it whilst you hang your head, feeling drained from your strength and energy. The guard’s hand clamps onto your jaw, forcing your head up to look at him however your eyes did not follow and despairingly half-lidded.

“Don’t die _just_ yet.”

“Why not?” you reply with a soft raspy voice.

He lowers his voice to a whisper, ensuring that only you would hear. “I still have to behead you at dawn.” His hand shoves your head away and lets it fall into the state you were once in.

 _“Her torment is by orders of the King,”_ he lies to his fellow guards who grew to doubt his actions from the thought of his avenging those who died when you came. _“Return her to her cell.”_ He says and watches them as they drag your body towards your prison, trailing blood in your wake until you are thrown back into your cell like a ragdoll, limp and lifeless with your chest heaving against the cold ground. As the door slams shut, you place your good arm beneath you and struggle to prop yourself up, but it is soon achieved and you sit up and back against the nearest wall, gritting your teeth at the agony of the shard wedged inside you and cutting through your flesh as you breath.

Thorin curses at the guards in his language, loud enough for the king to hear it. And the Silvan yells at him to be silent but he would not listen.

“You!” he shouts as he wounds his fingers around the bars, “If you so much as lay a finger on her again, I will not hesitate to end your worthless life.”

“You’re locked up,” he says as he turns to leave, “How do you suppose you’ll do that?” He flashes a smug grin at the inauspicious silence of the dwarf before moving on (with the others following behind), eager for the dawn to come, and leaving Thorin to wallow in his fret for your wellbeing.

You don’t know how much he wishes to be with you, to rid of all your pain, and to silence your cries of agony that echoed through the walls of this dungeon.

What else can you do but scream. You know it would do you more good than harm. But it came to a point where the pain came from your throat. That does not matter now; you need to rid of the shard.  You undo the first few buttons of your shirt and slide down your sleeve, exposing your lesions. You spare no second to tear off the hem of your shirt and wrap it tightly around your upper arm. With your eyes shut, your fingers dig into your flesh, searching for the shard and you did not bother restraining your yells.

You could feel the blood flowing down your arms and being soaked by your clothes. But you cannot stop now. Your fingers drill further into your muscles, and your screams just continue to grow louder. Then you feel the insignificant shard prick your fingertips and you plunge your fingers deeper into your flesh as you take hold of the damned blade’s tip, ripping it out of you with whatever remains of your strength.

Your voice cracks and you choke in your cries when you feel the shard in your palm. You breathe heavily and look to your hand, crimson with your blood and bits of flesh caught between your nails, to see the small thing that caused you so much pain. Setting the tip down, you shift the now wet cloth around your arm to your shoulder, tightening it and eventually ripping off your sleeve to wrap your wound with further.

Slowly, you button your shirt and drag yourself to the corner and rest your head against it, being reassured that you will not fall but soon feeling ill at how silent everyone is. And you did not bother to ask or speak as well; your throat is what ails you now and the numbing pain in your shoulder.

“Are you alright, lassie?”

The gentle tone of Balin’s voice asks and it echoes off the walls to be heard by all who awaits your answer. Especially the king who sits back against the wall, set on holding his breath until he is certain that you will be fine.

You process what he said. Over and over again in your head even if you well understood it as he spoke. You know not why you fail to say anything.

“I’m afraid not.”

You tell them and realize that you did not say it at all.

“I’m fine.”

You say at last and the words come out rough and beaten. They deserved even a bit of reassurance and that is all you could offer them as of the moment. And yet the king still held his breath.

¯

Music, harmonious and alluring, echoes from above. But down in the dungeons the noise is mocking and hideous. A tune so dreadful you thought that it is meant for a funeral—yours. And your just reminding yourself of what is to come after hours of sitting around.

“I’ll wager the sun is on the rise,” Bofur says, “Must be nearly dawn.”

You moan inwardly as your heart sinks and it soon shatters to know that your voice would not allow you to say your farewells.

A sudden agony hits the back of your head and a screeching noise resounds in your ears and your head thrashes against the wall. You could almost scream. It grows louder and overwhelming to the point where your hands begin to tremble as they move up to clench against your ears. Your eyes gaze past the metal bars and you see a haze passing with a gold shimmering light moving along with it. And as it leaves your line of sight, the noise ceases and you are left wondering what in the world that was.

“We’re never gonna reach the Mountain, are we?” Ori asks and although his sweet voice is above a whisper, all still seemed to hear it.

“Not stuck in here you’re not,”

A familiar voice says, and a broad smile comes across your face to hear it. Everyone is in awe and immediately filled with joy as all press against the bars—and your attempt riddles you for you found your strength renewed. They call out his name, heartfelt and hopeful at this miracle.

But they were shushed by the hobbit himself, “There are guards nearby,” he says in a whisper as he unlocks Thorin’s cell and the king immediately directs his attention to you, walking around the corner to find you holding onto the bars. You hear more doors being opened and some hushed laughter from the others.

Thorin looks to you with such worry and his eyes glisten against the lantern’s light. His hands cover yours and you just continue to smile immensely relieved to see his face. Soon, Bilbo comes around the corner with the ring of keys in hand. Thorin steps back and your hand slips from the bars, allowing him to unlock your cell. And as soon as the door opens Bilbo flashes a grin at you before bolting off to aid the others, leaving you with Thorin who now has his arms wrapped around you. Your hands snake around his waist and you bury your head in his neck, immersing yourself in his warmth and comfort. Soon, he pulls back, but you manage to sneak a gentle kiss on his lips and see a slightly stunned look on his face at your gesture. What you did not see is Dwalin’s amused smile and arched brow from behind, in which Thorin replies with his brows raised.

“Let’s get out of here.” You say whilst brushing past him and looking to the hobbit who continued to free the rest from their cages.

“This way,” Dwalin whispers as he makes his way near the stairs leading back to the entrance. Thorin and the rest of the freed dwarves hastily make their way to the mouth of the threshold, gesturing each other to go first then suggesting you would and soon letting Thorin go up a few steps. But as the king peaks into the room above, the hobbit calls out just as he frees Gloin and runs down some stairs.

“Not that way, down here, follow me.”

The dwarves exchange looks of doubt and suspicion as they line themselves near the stairs trailing downward. You eye them, silently urging that they just move. Some mumble in their language until Dwalin slightly pushes Bombur to make him budge telling him: “Just go.”

Then the line at last moves down the flight of stairs; Thorin stands at the end directing the others to continue and making sure that all thirteen are there— _fourteen_ , but you were standing by him until he gestured you’d go on and he followed behind.

You see the vast walls and large stone pillars that stand in the chamber below the seemingly endless steps. But then when the end of it came closer also did the loud bellowing snores. Worse than what you heard from the dwarves that is for certain.

Steps became far lighter as you approached the end and stopped near it. You all gazed at the two elves who were not-so-soundly sleeping. And the empty bottles of wine, you could tell that they had a rousing time. At first you thought that there were hoards of elves piled up on one another and all sleeping like swine rolling in a liquor mud. Apparently there are _only_ two, and what a loud couple they are.

“This way,” Bilbo whispers as he moves near large barrels, gesturing you all move with haste. Which did not happen. You all move down the steps and look around, taking in your surroundings. “Come on,” he whispers more harshly.

“I don’t believe it, we’re in the cellars!” Kili manages to keep his voice low as he snaps at the hobbit.

And soon it becomes a whispered argument. “You’re supposed to be leading us out no further end,” Bofur says moving in on Bilbo.

“I know what I am doing.” The hobbit says sounding harsher and to be shushed by Bofur himself as he moves behind some barrels.

“This way,” the hobbit clenches his lips together and holds up his arms, directing everyone to the barrels, still inwardly urging everyone to move with haste and yet no one seemed to comply and moved as they would.

Soon you follow Oin past some sort of metal rod on the ground and to the barrels unknowing that Thorin stayed behind, near the hobbit and watched as you all raise questioning brows at what is to happen next. And that is answered when Bilbo whispers:

“Everyone climb into the barrels, quickly.”

But his words just turn Dwalin sour, and he cuts through the crowd and you watched them from the near end, “Are you mad?” his stare is locked on Bilbo like he could annihilate him with his stern gaze, “They’ll find us.”

“No, no!” he shakes his head frantically, “They won’t, I promise you. Please, _please,_ you _must_ trust me.”

Dwalin turned back to the company and they buried themselves in a riddling discussion. And you secretly roll your eyes at them whilst you place a hand on the rim of a barrel that lay above another, wondering how you would get in feet first inside. Unknowing that Thorin watched you curiously, and saw that you truly have faith in the Baggins who just turned to him looking absolutely desperate.

“Do as he says,” his voice is a gruff whisper, and you turn to him such as the rest did with faces blank and suddenly silent. And they literally begin to push each other into the barrels in compliance to their king. Some even began to urge you and offered to carry you up there, but you said you can manage. However, you regretted not accepting their offer after a few attempts to lift yourself feet first into the barrel.

Dwalin nearly sprung out of his just to push you inside but Thorin got to you first. And for that you are truly grateful. He lifts you by your back as you slip in to the barrel, crouching into the small space and laying on one side, watching as Thorin moves into his in the end.

The hobbit counts each dwarf and, of course, you ensuring that all is here and when he is quite sure of himself he makes his way towards the metal rod.

“What do we do now?” Bofur asks, popping his head out of his barrel, and you soon followed and see that everyone else had their heads sticking out as well. (All except Bombur who seems to have his feet sticking out instead.)

“Hold your breath.” The hobbit says plainly and your brows crook.

“ _Hold your breath?_ ” Bofur repeats as Bilbo takes hold of the rod, “What do you mean hold—”

The floor began to creak and sink beneath you, thudding louder than the dwarves screams. And the world begins to spin— _literally_ and you sink back into the barrel slightly bashing your head against the wood. You begin to grow ill from the whirling motion and the sudden weightlessness before you plunge into a watery ground that felt more like slamming into concrete. You clamp your mouth shut when you’re momentarily submerged beneath the water. And when the barrel finally comes afloat, you at once raise your head above the water and gasp for air.

Your barrel thuds against one behind you and soon the rest came bobbing up and clashing against yours. Someone holds the brim of your barrel from behind, and you could tell because you suddenly ceased moving. You turn, halfway you see Dwalin resting his arm against a stone then Thorin holding him—and you—in place.

You were just about to ask him ‘What about Bilbo?’ when you are bashfully distracted by his _state._ Curse his messy hair and damp clothes and his large forearms. How dare he become such a distraction.

He did not notice your staring, either that or he has grown accustom to it. Nevertheless, you did not get the chance to speak instead you were answered by a shriek and a splash.


	16. Graceless Elegance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The river flows swift and loud beneath as it pulls and slightly bashes you against stones. You slick your damp hair away from your face whilst you look about, searching for the others and finding them floating around you and being washed away by the rapids. It did not seem long before the kingdom was far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm just gonna say that i might be updating every week [(or two) basically: less frequently. sorry] and if I don't i might be caught up in school work or because I like to study (what a nerd i know). Good news is: chapters _might_ get longer!  
>  Thank you so much for reading/liking this! And for putting up with my wordy notes hehe (ps you can skip them if you want) Anyway, hope you like it!

“Welcome Master Baggins!”

Thorin greets with a wide grin across his face and the hobbit replies with a sort of groan and a short wave before he returns to clinging on for dear life, or a barrel in his case.

“Move! Come on! Let’s go!” Thorin cries out, unknowingly reminding you that you all must move in haste and ridding the thought of Bilbo inside your barrel with you like a bunny with a sword—for now. You turn to see Thorin’s back hunched over as you float whilst the river’s current sweeps you through this cavern. Thorin paddles with his hands, hoping to gain speed but soon enough the current grows stronger and you all approach the egress. Shouts of annoyed Silvan guards echo from above as the water roars from the upcoming revelation of freedom.

“Hold on!” the king yells as he braces himself and you all look to the light where the water cuts through the horizon, gleaming bright against the dawning sun. You tighten your grip on the brim of the barrel and unconsciously hold your breath whilst the roaring water approaches.

The sudden weightlessness returns when the horizon plummets and white raging currents come into view. You plunge into the crisp waters yet again, but your barrel took most of the blow as it smacks against the watery chasm. A boundless crystal blue world engulfs you within its cold blanket, momentarily absorbing the impact fall before you are forced back to the surface, clawing for breath. The river flows swift and loud beneath as it pulls and slightly bashes you against stones. You slick your damp hair away from your face whilst you look about, searching for the others and finding them floating around you and being washed away by the rapids. It did not seem long before the kingdom was far behind.

You could see Bilbo struggling to hold on and Nori trying to keep him where he is while you are slightly battered against the swift water and other barrels, eventually washing the dry blood from your limbs and clothes. But you know that was not enough.

Thundering water is all you could hear and at times the vague shouts from the dwarves. But then a loud bellowing horn sounds from the distance. And you know well that that is no orc horn.

Skidding against a rock, your barrel spins and you clutch onto the brim, holding in the nauseating feeling growing from the pit of your stomach. You see Thorin not far, gazing at something that soon came into view:

A bridge of stone with armored guards shouting and standing on it; a tunnel below where the raging waters fleetingly tamed as it passes through.

As you all hastily rush with the current, one guard below the bridge swiftly moves up the steps above the canal and grips onto a lever at the end. A loud creak of metal sounds whilst you all move beneath the bridge. And the vision of freedom fades when iron gates slam shut. It was then when you remember that freedom is never easy to achieve.

Thorin yells protests as he latches onto the gates upon impact and attempts to force them open. Unfortunately, to no avail. It is just like being trapped in the cells once more, no soon foreseen chance of escape but far drearier since you are all given the taste of freedom that merely became sour. Soon, barrels come in and collide with each other to be stopped by Thorin’s at the end. You bump against Oin and find yourself beneath the bridge and the sky.

The Silvans unsheathe their blades in sync and you listen to the taunting sound. But then you hear something else. A swish. Then another taunting noise—

An orc and its menacing growl.

But it cannot be. You must have heard wrong. And the abrupt sight of an elf falling into the river would not even make you believe otherwise. In that moment, you are unaware that your face froze, and you wondered if the guard executing you would show you more mercy than Bolg if he found out your treachery. You become so pensive that you fail to realize that the dwarves from behind began their clamoring, that more elves fell, and that orcs began to swarm.

You did not even notice Balin’s worrisome look, and how some of the dwarves drifted in front of you. Not to mention how you began to drift away. That is when you are given a glimpse of reality. Orcs are lunging at the dwarves from behind, eventually beaten and drowned after brief moments of struggle.

And the next thing you know, you are holding an orc by his wrists, preventing him from clawing your skin off. However, you struggle from the returning pain in your shoulder and when the others see your agony those nearest immediately tore the orc from you.

 _“Traitor!”_ He snarls at you in his speech and that became his last word.

It grows harder to breathe and you clench your chest, then your aching shoulder. You’re unsure if you’re going into shock or afraid that they understood what he said and question you. Thorin above all, since he watched you as you are being hauled beneath the bridge by forces you didn’t mind at the time. He looked either worrisome or confused. You could not tell. You’re even unsure what to think. There is far too much happening around and thoughts flooding into your mind to process it all at once. And the continuous battle cries and clamor of the orcs just made the environment far more unsettling.

However, amidst all this, you heard him and his sinister tone as he commanded the orcs to move forth and attack. _“Slay them all!”_ he shouts and you are sure he truly meant _all_ of you. There is no doubt that he heard what the orc said.

And you cannot have them doubt your allegiance.

“Get under the bridge!” Thorin yells, pressed against the bars, while you inter yourself beneath the dimness of the shadow that is cast above. You are there underneath the bridge near Balin who began to question your wellbeing but your mind is somewhere else entirely, wondering through various outcomes and foreseeing what you might say if ever things turn sour.

The fear froze on your face.

It is not the orcs you fear, no. It was never them.

But it is enough for Balin to think such.

It is then when an orc springs from one end towards Nori, screeching and raising its blade. Apparently, it is enough to draw you away from your cavernous thoughts. But the moment you looked up, the orc was pierced in the neck by a blade that glowed bright blue and fell into the water, shedding its dark blood. _Bilbo_. It is he who you feel has much more to offer than what appearances give.

You continue to look around and found others pummeling orcs with their bare fists and one by one they fell but more came. It is an endless onslaught of orcs lunging towards the dwarves beneath the sky who now gathers the weapons of the fallen creatures. Their efforts were restless but so were the dwarves. Still you thought that one side would have to give up sooner or later.

And that is when you saw him, climbing out of his barrel and swiftly balancing on the others despite the trembling water and at last making it on the platform to be greeted by another orc, the young prince himself, Kili. Immediately he evades the orc’s attacks and brings forth attacks of his own. He turns suddenly at Dwalin’s call of his name and catches a blade that was tossed to him. He beats the orc with it, eventually bringing it to its knees and kicking it forcefully into the river.

The prince makes his way up the steps when another orc comes at him. As he struggles to get a good shot at the creature, another jumps from behind, raising its spear high and aims for Kili’s head. But the orc fails to realize that the young prince is not alone and his brother swiftly throws a dagger at the orc, embedding it in its head, while the other orc dueling with Kili lost his. He rushes toward the lever at the end and faces another orc that appears from behind the stone wall. With one slash of his blade, he rips open the creature’s chest and it falls on the flat of the wall dripping its atrocious blood.

The lever is so close.

It’s right before him.

But a pain in his leg renders him so weak he can’t even stand. Fili shouts his brother’s name, the concern overwhelming his tone. But it is as if he could not hear him.

Just as Kili’s legs begin to concede he grips the lever with one hand, the other clutching desperately on to his leg, hoping to keep the pain from spreading. He forces the lever down but it would not move. It is as if it weighed far greater than ever. The agony begins to overpower his legs and the only thing that keeps him standing is the lever. That is until it slips from his grasp. And the stone floor beats against his back.

Thorin mutters his nephew’s name, stricken with fear and great worry.

Uneasiness spreads through your chest like acid slowly burning you inside. You know not where he was hit or if he still lives. All you wish to do is pull yourself out of this confinement and come to his aid. But the obstructions before you said otherwise.

 _Help him!_ You wanted to shout to the others who could have rushed to his side. But they were staring at something from a distance. And that is when an arrow flies overhead and a dark haired she-elf comes into view, firing her arrows and beating orcs.

A frown forms sullenly across your face at the sight of her near the bridge. And you could hear Bolg telling his men to kill her. If you did not know any better you would have forced yourself out and heeded to his command.

Then the sound of more arrows soaring through the air resonates from behind.

You need not look to know that it was _the blond one._ And you did not care if they were _assisting_ you all in _any_ sort. They are still scum of the earth.

 _Kili_ , you remind yourself as you brush your hand against the cold stone wall of the tunnel. But before you could even think of crawling out of your barrel, iron gates creak open and the cold walls moves beneath your palm. And you soon found yourself plummeting into roaring waters once more.

 

The massive pressure forced onto you by the river drives you deep beneath the cold blanket and makes you choke on your stilled breaths. The crystal blue world around you ripples as it brings you up into the world you fleetingly left. Water beats against you, pushing you around like a small boat in an ocean of raging tides. You grow so sick of holding your breath when you are driven down beneath the waves just to be brought back up and thrash against the angry water.

The roar of the tides masks the shouts of the orcs as they fired their arrows at the barrels, chasing you all in the stone boarders of the river. You are thrown against the others and the rampant waters in an endless cycle of plunging into the freezing waters to be thrown back up and made a target by the orcs who took horrible shots. (You could clearly do better.)

Soon, it comes to a point where the currents did not drastically fall and the cycle at last ended. Instead the river swept you all with it, at times near the stones bordering and the orcs that stand on it. The orcs would then come in for an attack which would only end to them falling into the river with the dwarves now armed with their weapons.

And they chased you all ever so relentless. And not only the orcs but the elves as well. They prance on the boughs that hang from above like the Wood-Elves they are. They seem more like tall pointy-eared creatures flinging around sticks at the orcs who looked like them. At least their flimsy sticks manage to pierce thick orc skin.

They are keeping up to you all and slaying the orcs who would get in their way. Your and the other’s safety is the last thing they are trying to protect, you’re sure of that. Their kingdom would be of the outmost importance to them, you deem. And ridding foul creatures in their lands must be their first priority. And you wonder why they themselves have not left yet.

Just as you spilled your ill thoughts concerning those elves, an orc crashes against you and then deflects into the water. The moment was brief but its weight was punishing and although it brought you a surprisingly small amount of pain you feel as if it was the elves’ intention.

Or _elf’s_ intention.

You suspect it is Legolas’ doing but _unfortunately_ he is nowhere in sight.

In fact, what _is_ in sight is the taunting rapid current that thunders as it descends into the abysmal waters. And by the gods, you are so _sick_ of hearing it.

You all plunge into the ever so irking currents with no choice but to hold your breaths or choke on the water. If it was not for the barrels, you all would have drowned by now.

Orcs attempt to strike you all with their arrows or pierce you with their spears whilst you all stumble with the tides. Not one arrow made their mark—unless their marks were on the brims of the barrels—and you soon expect to see them sink to the bottom of the river like stones.

The swift current carries you all beneath the trees and an orc screeches from the top of a fallen tree that bridged the two stone walls. Balin yells as he is swept beneath the tree clear in the orc’s sight. It leaps from its place with its weapon high in the air.

And its ghastly wail resounds as it hangs from the wood with a blade pierced through its neck. A remarkable shot delivered by the king himself. And you were more than joyous to have seen him, being near the end. The orc thrashes against the blade impaling him and loosens the grip on his weapon. As Thorin passes beneath he takes hold of it and soon begins to pass it to those behind. From Dwalin, to Nori, then Gloin, until you take hold of it and pass it to Fili who later uses it to knock down an orc by its shins.

Their attempts to slay you all become so restless it just becomes irking. But of course, you’ve been with them—the orcs—for far longer. They’ve always been annoying and pathetic to you. And you thought such especially when an orc was slain by a mere stone thrown by Bofur himself.

 

Soon, you all come across a log laden with orcs snarling and waving their spears in the air. Few ahead manage to pass without being harmed. But some were not so fortunate.

It is when Thorin approaches that he yells: “Cut the log!” with an Orcish axe wound tight in his grasp. He swings back the axe as he passes beneath and brings down a heavy blow against the wood, leaving a crater in its place. But the log would not move yet and the orcs above are still bellowing and snarling in their tongue.

Dwalin is the one who delivers the final blow, striking the axe fiercely against the already weakened wood. The axe, like all other weapons the dwarves now wielded, is Orcish. And so are the ones that suddenly come raining down upon you.

The log snapped, spilling orcs and their weapons down the river where they soon drowned. You brace yourself, enduring the orcs that crashes down but none fell on you nor did you appear to be harmed. For the others behind you, I could only say they endured a different fate.

Slicking the hair off your face you look behind and no longer see the orcs any signs of the log but the dwarves appearing out from beneath the water clawing for breath and the hobbit uncomfortably riding atop the barrel, still clinging on for dear life.

Turning to the lands bordering the river you notice that the number of elves flinging their sticks have decreased greatly. And you know not why but you feel more ill at ease.

That is the moment when you see him. No, not the blond one. _Bolg_. His grimace still etched across his face like it always is and will be. His cold eyes meet yours in an ire filled glare. The distance between you both is great but you know that this contact is only to remind you of your purpose.

Armed with his bow and arrow he would have shot you and be done with the hindrance that he thinks you are.

You know he is not the one to miss.

And you know this well since he wrought you into the archer you have become. _Brutally,_ you recall.

Yes, he taught you all you know. This young, flimsy, reckless self-taught archer wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without his teachings. And another thing you know of him is that he would never kill you himself regardless of his threats. He is just like his father.

And just as you return from your cavernous thoughts, you watch as arrows rain from above. All of them directed towards you.


	17. Distinctive Mediocrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He saw the unspeakable hell that they brought down upon you—solely unto you, which soon gave you no other choice but to dive into another hell that lay raging beneath you all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took so long, I experienced technical difficulties. And my school loves giving out homework on Fridays :/ Anyway, I had to rewrite some stuff that I couldn't access on my laptop and I got really exited to write the next chapters and they're almost done heheh. I'm gonna be posting on my phone for a while so uh all errors are mine.

Thorin’s heart sinks as he blindly searches for your silhouette in the water but you are lost to the white foaming rapids.

He saw the unspeakable hell that they brought down upon you— _solely_ unto you, which soon gave you no other choice but to dive into another hell that lay raging beneath you all. It was so foolish of you to have done this—to have put him in this sudden state of fret and anxiousness.

 _Why_ _you?_ He spends an eternity wondering, repeating those words in his head until he plainly wished to kill every single orc scum on this wretched land.

With one hand he tightly grips the brim of the barrel and it creaked beneath his force, the other clenched onto the Orcish axe he still arms himself with. Each second becomes an eternity and as it agonizingly passes, his desire to dive in after you grows. And Dwalin, who is not far from him, could see that drive in Thorin’s eyes that compelled him so as he stayed stiff, fixed on the waters behind. He calls his attention to be responded with silence, but with slight reassurance: Thorin had looked away.

He has every intention to come after you and yet he could do _nothing_ of it. His duty to his company as their king would always come first such as he was taught to place the needs of his people, he reminded himself. And if he were to fall now, all he worked for would be for nothing. Reclaiming Erebor will _always_ be a priority of his; this is a quest he cannot risk failing, and the fate of it will not be hindered by one— _woman_. He reminds himself to forget that you are far more that to him. All that is left for him to do is hope that the water would not turn crimson or that a body would not float idly to the surface and lay there, unmoving.

_It’s just for now._

 

 _Fractured ribs, punctured lung, broken shoulder,_ a mere overreaction, but you are not yet certain if this is a reality. The numbing pains in those areas however are enough to make you think such. Your vision begins to fade, grow vague until you could barely see the already unclear movement of the violent water.

You force your eyes open.

_I will not die like this._

You are trapped beneath this prison of waves, tortured by raging currents that throw you against stones and muffles your screams with its cold hand over your mouth. This state made you think that the worst has already came and you are unknowingly correct; however, the excruciating pain is soon to come. Your injured shoulder crashes against a large stone, making you drain the air from your already suffocating lungs and leaving you with the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Your arms swing around the stone before the current forces you away but you are placed against it, leaving your fractured shoulder and the rest of your bruised body to push against the rock. For now you are just thankful to have this ounce of chance for escape and you dare not let go of it—and you mean this quite literally for if you do then you are sure that the next time you would manage to get a hold of something it would be a rock or branch that your corpse had snagged on to.

Struggling to move against the waves (while placing that thought aside), you stretch your arm and reach for the top of the stone regardless that it is only your fingertips that managed to take hold of it. You soon feel the air from above brush against your arm in all its glory. You could not wait to have a taste of this blissful freedom and forced your body up, pulling with your arms and pushing with your legs, past the boundary that did not allow you air. The moment your head rises out from the water, you shamelessly fill your empty lungs, joyous that you at last escaped yet another prison— _into yet another one._

A horrid snarl stings your ears.

But before you could even turn to face the dreadful orc that it came from, the sound of it thudding against the ground echoes. Looking up, you see the dead orc with an arrow piercing its neck. A bow—clearly Orcish from the dark embellishments—lay on the ground not far from where the carcass is. You eye the weapon, assessing if you could get to it while you push yourself up on the stone. The stinging pain in your shoulder (and, unfortunately, most of your body) became such a hindrance; however it is nothing you cannot bear.

You manage to sit yourself on the wet stone and all your eyes turn immediately to the taunting distance between the land and yourself. The shouts of the dwarves bellowing from afar gave you the slightest bit of ease knowing that they have not gone far— _yet_. That too gave you the strength and the folly to even think let alone stand on the stone. Your soaking wet clothes weighed you down and your boots did not agree on standing or even moving upon the slippery rock—and that gave you a stab of regret. However, that realization came after you leapt from where you stand.

 

He leaps from the top of an undersized rock face as he pulls back an arrow. And just before he descends, the arrow found its way between the eyes of an orc. Once his feet lays firmly on the ground, he swiftly reaches back gripping tight the hilt of his short blade and cuts through an orc’s neck as he unsheathes it, then he spins it in his hand before sliding it back into its scabbard.

The elf returns his attention to the river that is sweeping away their prisoners and leading on leagues of orcs. There is no time to waste.

Right before he breaks off into a run, he looks back, ensuring that Tauriel is still behind him and unharmed. She is in the middle of beheading orc after orc. Clearly, she is fine. Those foolish enough to even approach them would just feel the cold metal tip of their arrows piercing through their thick skin.

Legolas tightens his grip on the bow as he chases after their prisoners and those who are hunting them down. His pace quickens as the currents grow stronger. He watches the dwarves fend themselves with weapons taken from the orcs that dare test their might. And it is not long before he watches a storm of arrows hurdling toward that filth. You plunge into the water to be followed by countless shards disappearing beneath the waves.

Oh, how he wished for your demise. And yet he is dissatisfied that he was not given the chance to truly show the arrogance—which clearly was inherited from his father—he contained within himself. You are of great significance to him. You’re but the only one he would ever unleash upon this conceit.

It is not long however that his hope for your downfall is in ruins when he saw you emerge from what he thought would be your grave not far from where he is and soon enough he would have to cross paths with you once again.

The orcs wail as they begin their attack from above. But the elf’s speed is greater than theirs. Orcs begin to drop like insects on the ground, their bodies quivering despite their heads being dismembered.

But there is this one orc, armed with its bow, which the elf missed. Legolas is neither wounded nor blind and since his task is to rid of the orcs that are within their borders, it is quite strange for him to let this one slip. Unless, of course, he had intended to do so.

What happened next still baffles him. How come the orc fell and you did not. This is surely the work of one of the Guards in their kingdom. The anger fumed in his bright blue eyes and yet his face remains placid. _Once I find out who it is, I will not hesitate to rebuke them for their dire mistake._ But of course, he would not dare for the elf who has sparked his rage knew not what she has done.

 

As soon as your foot touched the edge of the ground upon your descent, you had no doubt that you are to fall back against the rocks or the river once more. It feels as if your heart has given up and your lungs collapse on themselves as you fall into death’s embrace. But you only feel a tight grip against your wrist as you lean back above the tides with your feet balancing off the edge, gazing back into the bright green eyes of a red-haired she-elf.

She pulls you up and away from the edge and you snatch your arm away from her once you’ve regained your balance. Partially because of the former rope burns there that still stings when tightly held and the fact that she is a close accomplice of the blond one who now glares at you both from afar.

The she-elf spoke not a word but looked as if she expected a thanks and you might as well give her one and so you tilt your head slightly. Immediately after, you look to the side, the dwarves who were drifting off quicker than you thought. You first arm yourself with the Orcish bow and quiver—that is half full with arrows—from the fallen creature then, without warning, run off in their direction hoping that you could catch up to them. Staying a mere moment later would have gotten you captured, you thought. Looking over your shoulder, you realize how fortunate you are. They weren’t even chasing after you.

_I am no threat to them, not now at least._

Orcs shrieked and bellowed as they stormed off attempting to kill the dwarves as they float in barrels. And apparently they had such a difficult time in doing so. A legion of orcs trying to take down thirteen dwarves— _fourteen_ plus the hobbit, no— _fifteen_ including you. How hard is that, truly?

Apparently, quite difficult. But taking down a Man on foot seems quite more doable. And you know this, of course, since you are that Man.

The orcs’ attention draws toward you once you’ve come within their sight, firing their arrows or spears at you but not bothering to draw near enough and lose sight of the dwarves. Averting multiple arrows and spears at a time is not an easy task for sure; however they are also the reason why you would not so easily run out of arrows since they came from all ends, almost flying into your hands so to say—flying into your hands and grazing your skin. Those who wish to kill you are growing in number The growing numbers of them attempting to kill you just made you begin to fire blindly, at times you do not even look at where you’re shooting. _So, this is what it’s like to be hunted._

You maneuver through the uneven grounds, now not bothering to even shoot any orc despite the fact that you’ve discarded many arrows because the quiver is already laden with it. Killing them is hardly in your mind at the moment and that is quite shocking coming from you. Returning to your place in the company is your priority as of now. And it is within that moment when you begin to wonder if you truly have a place with them. Not that it matters. They’re the only bunch that would ever bring you even the slightest bit of contentment in this world nowadays. And you desperately need to return to them, regardless if you belong or not, for the rapids fail to slow down and carry them further away. The distance between you and the company grow greater each moment and you could imagine what would happen if you were left behind amongst the orcs and elves but that was nothing compared to what mundane life awaited you without them.

You run blindly across the riverside, avoiding the horrid glares and bothersome attacks of the orcs and boughs and roots of trees that seem to have appeared out of nowhere, also the elves that appeared out of nowhere beating orcs with their bows like children (as it appeared to you). Even a glance at an elf always seemed to remind of the ounce of kindness shown to you by that one elf. That thought stuck with you for quite a long while, longer than you would have hoped, and you are unaware that this is a thought that you would not soon forget. But the best thing about thoughts is that they could be set aside (to be forgotten takes quite an effort) especially after seeing a flying dwarf in a barrel.

 

They are on the run once again—not like fugitives, since they are trying to catch them at least— fighting off orcs as they run and do whatever it is that elves do. Their pace proved far lighter and faster than you, seeing that they are quite used to this landscape. And upon my mentioning of you, Legolas seems to have a word or two on the subject.

“Why help that filth? You should have let her die. She would have been executed nonetheless.” He says to Tauriel, trying his absolute best not to sound irritated by her actions. (‘Questioning her is the closest thing I could get to a consequence,’ he thought) But she needed not his tone to know he is annoyed.

 _“Our orders are to rid of the orcs, not to kill our prisoners.”_ She says to him in their tongue, thinking that that is enough to pass through his skull. _“If we had been set out here to rid of them all then why have we not been shooting at them?”_

There is a silence before he decided to speak, letting her question die on her lips. _“But you let her escape.”_

“They have not escaped _yet_.”

Yes, well, she did not lie. Their prisoners are still within their lands. But when they _have_ escaped that is the moment wherein they should worry. As if spiders were not enough to make them worry. They were bored for decades, so to say. And the coming of dwarves, a man and orcs are just the beginning of the morning. What a fine way to celebrate the ending of autumn and the passing of their feast of Starlight.

But, of course, spiders and dwarves, men and orcs are not enough for this land. The elves deserve something more unexpected. And that is when Legolas first saw our dear hobbit. He is, indeed, unsure what Bilbo is and where he had come from. He could have sworn he saw him riding upon one of the barrels. Perhaps that is the creature Tauriel claimed to have seen in the cellars not long ago, right after the prisoners have gone missing. Yes, that makes more sense.

 _What a strange company that dwarf_ king _hauls along behind him,_ Legolas thought; _a Man, his bunch of dwarves, and this halfling._ Certainly the elf would never think of having such traveling companions, whatever the purpose.

He looks to his companion once more, his face stern like it always appears to be. He cares about Tauriel and for that he decides not to tell her of the treachery he is dying to commit.

 

 _I need to hop in that barrel_.

You’ve come to a point wherein you don’t find that thought odd. It’s not impossible, but it will be difficult. How Bombur did it, (and how he flew) you are still uncertain how and if it even occurred. All that’s left is for you to fly and smash orcs as well.

The river is flowing so fast, you know not how the orcs and elves can put up with it. This is when you miss most being a floating target instead of a running one. You manage to catch up with the dwarves at the end after you’ve well discarded your unused quiver and bow, soon thinking that it was just dead weight even if it is in fact a weapon. Now, you are unarmed target. Your pride, however, tells you that the orcs would never even get the chance to hit you.

 _They’re so close_. Your legs are wobbling and your soles and lungs are burning, but the sight of Bofur, Dwalin and Ori seemed renew your strength, whatever remains of it that is. They weren’t noticing you, however. You could shout to get their attention but you can’t even catch your breath. You can’t even tell if there’s a vacant barrel floating amongst them.

You looked ahead and they began disappearing from the horizon. Your eyes widened in shock and your heart thunder in your chest. You could hear it beating loud in your ears along with the booming roars from that end brought you no relief. One by one the dwarves descended and the rather long period of time it took for them to crash into the river again just makes your heart overwhelm itself again. A sixty foot drop, you deem. But may it be a hundred or ten you are sure not to risk jumping off, unknowing of what truly lies ahead.

You avert your eyes and gaze at the dwarves in their barrels. And it is not long before you notice it. The most incredible thing you could ever hope to see: an empty barrel. Your heart swells with joy and you could not help the wide grin that formed across your face.

The waters roared as you come to approach the falls. You gaze sternly at the barrel as if you’re trying to beckon it toward you with your mind. Your eyes then cross with another’s, his eyes wide as if struck with fear. He yells but you could not hear him and the world around you collapsed and grew dark.

 

Thorin Oakenshield scowls as he looks back at the falls. The elf had decided to use his fellow dwarf’s heads as platforms to stand on whilst he fires his arrows at the orcs. _If this is his definition of_ help _then I would never dare ask for it._ Thorin is quite surprised that the blond elf hasn’t been targeting them all this time, not even to fake a misfired arrow even if he clearly knew better. However that was, unusually, not a concern of his at present.

_Where is she?_

He asks himself once more as he scans the river and the barrels—some of which were already occupied. _Nothing_. The dwarf king has seen no sign of you since you disappeared beneath the water. And the noise of the currents crashing, masking the sound of dying orcs, brought him no ease. It merely reminded him of what he could have done and what he has failed to do.

Muffled cries of irritated dwarves resound from behind him and he returns to reality, floating in a barrel through a river In attempt to escape the elves and orcs. He glances over to his side and sees the elf prance over their heads like stepping stones as he makes his way to the riverside, kicking an orc to the ground as he passes and lands onto higher ground. Thorin grasped the handle of the axe firmly as he watches the elf duel with two orcs. One of which, he has already killed and the other he is struggling to slay.

His grip tightens.

It was a split second decision. Let the elf perish at the hands of the orcs unknowingly or to save his life. Thorin still knows not why he chose what he did. Perhaps it was a show of gratitude that the elf had chosen to protect their lives in a way. But, of course, may this be true or not, Thorin would never admit thinking of such.

Regardless, the dwarf still gave him the chance to live and he may not know it but that decision is of grave importance. The elf is but one of the many few who would like nothing better than to see you buried beneath the ground. If the dwarf had known any better he wouldn't have saved the elf, especially after what he did to you.


	18. Comforting Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't want to leave. There the voices cry out again, louder, beckoning that you come with them back into the dark.

Everything is illuminated by a blinding white light that creeps into every dark corner of your being.

The light is so intense, so bright that you shield your eyes with both your hands. But the light still seems to pass through as if your hands were smooth fragments of glass. Then you realized, you had no hands. You felt nothing, not even the breeze against your skin. You're not even sure if you have a body. Perhaps you are suspended in pure nothingness with nothing but a bright light shining on your eyes—if you even have eyes. Everything feels so serene for some reason and you no longer feel lost.

A muffled voice calls out your name. You can barely understand it and think it is just your mind playing tricks on you.

The voice calls out again but you didn't want to listen. For a moment the voice ceases but then it returns, mixed with other voices and noises that made you cringe.

The light mellows, allowing you to feel slightly more comfortable in this nothingness but the voices sting you, urging you leave this silence. You didn't want to leave. There the voices cry out again, louder, beckoning that you come with them back into the dark.

You could nearly scream.

You never want to go back.

Then, the voices fade and silence becomes your only companion, other than the light.

It's as if you're being lifted now and you writhe beneath this sudden feeling. They are taking you, forcing you out of your shelter. _No, I don't want to leave!_ Your voice echoes in the illuminated chamber of light.

A massive force pounds repeatedly against you. You know not where it comes from but you beg it to cease. The light around you slowly begins to fade and you call out for it, begging that it return to you. The last thing you want is to leave this place. But it is too late.

The coldness of reality creeps up upon you, taking you in its dark core. Your lungs cry for air but the water inside it greatly disagreed. You cough, forcing out the water in your lungs and at last breathing in the blissful air. You look up, now seeing darkened hazes that soon begin to take shape. You could recognize Bofur with his distinctive hat peering outside. Your body is numb, bruised and battered, like that of the others who you now joined. Regardless of that, the sensations are slowly beginning to return to you.

You could feel the rough wood against the tips of your fingers and your soaking wet garments that cling onto your skin. You are, at last, in a barrel—in Bofur's barrel as it seems. You're crouched in the depth of the cylindrical death trap with your head rested against its wall. Beside you are Bofur's legs, the rest of his body peers out, resting on the brim. The dwarf does not seem to notice you awakening.

He calls out something about orc— _orcs_  being the only word you understood—but you are too tired to even bother. And so you shut your eyes and bask in the darkness trying to recall your time in the light.

 

Thorin hauls himself out of his barrel like appearing slightly like a savage dog who hasn't eaten in a long while. They all appeared like this to be honest. They are famished, sore, bruised, and tired. Their bodies ached and they wished to lie on the cool uneven stone beneath.

The dwarf king looked around, scanning the familiar faces around him hoping to find a glimpse of you. And when he saw none, he begins to loathe himself for not doing anything to save you.

"Are you going to be alright, lass? You don't look so good." The unmistakable voice of Bofur lifted a great weight from his chest. The dwarf with the hat seems like he is speaking to a stone but Thorin tells himself that you are resting against it, safe.

"I'll be fine, Bofur," he hears you say but with not as much vigor as he hoped. "This is nothing a little bandaging won't fix. I would probably need Oin's help searching for some herbs though." There is a moment of silence. "I'll be alright, I've been through worse. Kili on the other hand . . . I think he'll need more help than I."

  

The large stone you rest against is cold and wet. You ached but did not whine. You are quite used to the silent suffering especially after recent events. The cries of anguish from Kili, however, made you wonder how much pain he's going through. 

Managing a glance at the dwarf over your shoulder, you have drowned your skepticism. _I know what ails him_. Kili looked as pale as ever, his eyes slightly bloodshot and you could hear his cries of pain from here.

Bolg's bow and arrows looked familiar the first time you saw it. He had been carrying it with him before the other orcs decided to make you a target and shoot at you all at once. But you've seen it far before that instance. Your time in that dark fortress is a time you could never forget and so is that _poison,_ that Morgul shaft. He threatened to kill you with it more than once, telling you exactly what will happen if you were ever shot with it. That is why you willingly sent Bofur to his side the next chance you could. It is beginning to show on Kili.

Unusually pale, bloodshot eyes, weakening strength, trouble breathing and excruciating pain from the wound. That is just the symptoms. If you tell Kili what ails him he might go into shock or possibly worse.

The others might even wonder how you know of this. What matters is that you need to try and cure Kili, but first you're going to have to stand on your own two feet. Alas, an excruciating pain stops your attempts. Then . . . you remember.

Fragments of your memory return to you. _You're running . . . a vague scream . . . an agonizing pain . . . Legolas . . . then darkness . . . and light._

 

 _She's alright_. Thorin tells himself, looking in your direction, wanting desperately to come to your side but he prioritizes your need for rest. Soon, however, he sees that you think otherwise.

You have stood up on your shaking knees and soon manage to trudge along the rocky shore. He notices you slowly adjusting every step but that is at a snails pace. It was not long after when he thought you were capable of walking, even if you did such crookedly. You all needed to move.

Attention draws toward Kili, groaning in pain as he falls to his knees. Bofur watches him with concern. 

The young dwarf prince took note of his pity, and somehow decided he didn't need it. "I'm fine," he says waving off the pain, "it's nothing." His brother almost instantly comes to his side, obviously thinking otherwise.

"On your feet." Thorin announces with a stern voice and all eyes turn towards him for a moment, all except yours—which he did not mind since he met no ones gaze.

Fili immediately interrupts, looking up at his uncle from his place, "Kili's wounded, his leg needs binding."

The dwarf king sighs. _Two injuries—two potentially lethal injuries if not treated properly. Now is not the time. They will have to wait._ "We have an Orc pack on our tail," he reminds them. "We keep moving."

"To where?" Balin interjects, appearing from his side.

"To the Mountain." Bilbo says, his arms stiffened by the cold. "We're so close."

The older dwarf sighs and, for a moment, looks beyond them before saying, "A lake lies between us and that Mountain. We have no way to cross it."

"So, we go around it," the hobbit suggests.

"The orcs will run as down as sure as daylight," Dwalin says, seemingly belittling Bilbo's input—but he has a point. "We've no weapons to defend ourselves," he adds grimly.

Thorin takes in a deep breath as he wanders blindly toward you, however he now just thinking of a way to cross the lake and the town he remembers clearly, sitting upon the shining lake.

"Bind his leg, quickly," Thorin says, "You have two minutes." He means not to be ill-mannered but to remind them that they need to move with haste.

He looks on past them and his eyes meet suddenly with yours.  

Gorgeous blue eyes gaze at you, giving you all the comfort you could ever ask for. He reaches out and takes your hand in his. Your fingers intertwine, locking your hands together. Pain and worry are soon forgotten.

Thorin's voice is beneath a whisper when he asks, "Are you truly alright?"

You squeeze his hand gently, "It's nothing I can't heal from." _Although it might take a while. A long while_.

"Get well soon," he leans in and kisses your brow, "The both of you." As he parts, you can't help but to look towards Kili. He looks far worse than you thought. You shift uncomfortably, eagerly wanting to help but the quite annoying pain in you heel won't allow you just yet.

Or is it just Thorin.

He squeezes your hand this time and, as if he's aware of your intentions, he says "I'll have you quickly looked after before you do . . . anything." He glances back at his nephew for a moment, wordlessly telling you that he knows. You nod, still meaning to aid Kili regardless, and brush your hand against his cheek, smiling at the feel of his beard against your palm.

He manages a smile as well—barely, almost infinitesimal, but you still see it and thought of it as a sign of reassurance.

"I mean it," he whispers lowly into your ear, teasing and showing you that he knows you better than you think. You couldn't help but laugh—the current situation, as you know, is not laughable but you couldn't suppress a chuckle.

Thorin leans in to kiss your brow once again, almost hesitantly this time as he faintly utters words in a language you cannot understand— _their_ language, you assume. You intend to ask him whatever he meant by that but he already pulled away and left.

 

Thorin found it quite difficult to express his emotions, it may not appear as such but he is so joyous to see you here before him. And yet he feels this awful sensation burning him, tormenting him from within. 

Thorin has always taken the risk of putting everyone in a dangerous situation, the risk of even partaking in this quest. Everyone's safety is another priority of his and so is the fate of the quest. The second is—evidently—what he deems more important unless—if it ever resulted to—the abundance of death plaguing his company.

 _I stood there idly and did nothing._ He clenches his jaw, morosely as this feeling of self-hatred fills his being. _I could have done something—_ anything.

Taking a deep breath, he steps back and ponders over what you might say if ever he told you of this. _"We will heal,"_ your voice echoes in his mind, comforting And caring. _"What is done, is done. There's no point dwelling in the past and no matter how much you think of how you could change it, it will remain as it is. Just focus on this instant . . . and the future since that is what we are capable of changing."_

Your voice fades, leaving him feeling more at ease than he was a moment ago. The great weight burdening him has only been lifted now. Thorin is baffled that he still felt awful even after his discreet apology. _"I am sorry,"_ he said in Khuzdul as he pressed his lips against your brow. _"If I had been there for you—for you_ both _, you would not be in this much pain."_ And he left before you could open your mouth to question him.

He expects you not to understand a word of it—and you didn't. He soon thinks it is best if he told you what he means by the string of Khuzdul he whispered against your brow when the time is right since there are still a lot of things he hasn't told you. _When the time is right . . ._

 

Thorin kissed you—twice—and clutched your hand while doing it. You cannot help but wonder what the others thought during this _exchange._ Doing this in front of twelve dwarves and a hobbit  usually does not go unnoticed. Most, you suppose, marveled as their king so openly showed his affection toward you, seeing that it is not often that they see him around women or even kissing one. For them, it was amusing. For Thorin, well, he could be more irritated but thankfully he is not—he has other things to deal with apparently. Dwalin, of all others, had his brow raised for sure, he probably could not grasp the fact that that actually occurred.  The rest are more likely to wave it off sooner or later or even forget it ever happened. They don't seem like the sort of folk who like to be all up in their king's personal affairs. You, for one, did not care what they thought of your _relationship_ with him. If there _is_ a relationship.

 _Of course there is, what would_ this _be if not a relationship?_

_An act . . . ?_

A deep sigh expels from you as you are drawn out from the very recesses of your mind back into the waking world. You know better than to return to past events. _I do not blame him for hating me._

Sensations surge through you almost instantly, the tightness of the bandage being wrapped around your upper arm and shoulder by Oin—who so kindly came at Thorin's behest. His somewhat flattened ear trumpet lay there on the rock hewn ground beneath him, adjacent to the rock on which you sit.

The air is cold and thick, reminding you of the oncoming Winter. Your wet clothes clung to your body and the air embraces you, bringing you into its icy haven. This is what seems like the only moment when you could take in your surroundings—you hardly know where you are when you got out from the barrel. You all seem to be on a large stone extension of wooded riverside. Tall trees loom and appear to lean in toward you past the stone borders into what appears to be a forest laden with thick boughs and trunks of trees. The cold air moves and dances with the tops of the trees. The rocky cliff face on the other side of the river bares its face and towers about twenty feet. Roots of strong trees protrude from the bare side like veins. The trees above look down onto the river as if they're watching over it but never do they fall from the edge. Between the two lands, a river is set, flowing now more calmly as it moves into the vast lake before you, shrouded in a thick fog that obscured your view of what may lay beyond _._

"There ya go, lass," Oin announces quite happily, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. You nearly forgotten that you're injured—but you are aware that you have more than one.

"Wait," you say, catching his attention just before he leaves. He eyes you curiously. Slowly, you take off your boot and water gushes from the heel as you set it down, revealing your swollen, bloody ankle with an unmistakable arrowhead protruding from one end.

_I do not blame him for hating me . . ._

 

Bilbo Baggins could nearly vomit from the sight: Oin is quite calmly pulling out half an arrow from your heel, not at all being bothered by all the crimson blood that flowed from the open flesh. You did not seem to be bothered either, all you did is clean the would with a cloth as he went along. And all this not being bothered nonsense is bothering him!

The hobbit could not take any more of this. He couldn't even turn toward Fili and Kili who also exposed a rather large wound. They were all beaten in their own way as it seems—and hungry for that matter. Thorin did not seem to have any new injuries although he appeared like it. _Or, wait, that's how he normally looks like._ Thorin's usual enraged and tired expression always made Bilbo assume that something is wrong with him. And often did he search that face for a conversation or two about anything at all and always he found nothing. Today, however, he is able to ask, "How do you suppose we get there?"

Thorin did not answer; his eyes are fixed on you but he appeared so pensive as if he is thinking over the hobbit's question. Or perhaps he failed to hear.

"To Erebor, I mean," Bilbo adds hesitantly.

Silence.

The hobbit follows Thorin's line of sight and finds himself watching you being bandaged by Oin—the half arrow hanging put from your shirt pocket—and soon struggling to stand. Oin tries to assist but you wave him off saying something that Bilbo could not hear. Soon, you are by Kili's side, helping his other aid him. The hobbit'a gaze returns to Thorin who no longer looked toward you instead meets his eyes. He looks unsure and bothered—more than he usually would. The king opens his mouth to speak but he is interrupted by the sound of an arrow being fired.

 

Meanwhile, a few leagues away, a young Elven prince strides confidently on the riverside. He is accompanied by two Elven guards, Tauriel and an Orc filth who they hold prisoner. Though the legion of orcs have not been completely obliterated, they have at last left their borders. _As well as the prisoners as it seems,_ he scowls. _They will be pursued by the orcs nonetheless. Death is at hand—for them_. Legolas looks back over his shoulder and manages a brief smile. The Orc Tauriel apprehended a while ago is being brought in for questioning. If it wasn't for her quick reflexes, the same Orc would have shot him dead from behind. Only a coward would do such a thing. He was watching their prisoners slip from his grasp, past their boarders when it happened. It was a great loss.

Legolas glares at the bounded Orc. At least now he'll find out why they entered their borders in the first place. 

The prince looks onward, marveling at the vast doors to his realm that draws nearer with each step. Two guards stand at its feet and they soon open it, revealing the great extremity of the Woodland Realm. Legolas, upon approaching hand his bow to one of the guards, meaning that he return it to the armory. But as soon as the weapon leaves his grasp he knows that something is wrong. The blond elf looks at the palm of his left hand to see an arrow embossed at the base of his fingers. He takes back the bow and examines it. The bow is fairly larger than he thought, the wood a darker shade and the carvings are definitely not from this land. And something stands out. On the handle of the bow, an arrow is carved, it's head twisted and the wood there is darker. There is no doubt now. He knows who this belongs to. 


	19. Uniquely Prosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rubs his gloved hands together in the cold air and says, thinking oddly of the company before him, "What makes you think I would help you?"

_Lake-Town_.

You've never been there before and it is only today wherein you are reminded that such a place exists. Earlier, you recall, Balin told you of the prosperous and respectable town of yore. "The peoples were kind and gentle folk," he said, "welcoming others from all ends of Middle Earth as they come in ships and boats of innumerable kinds and trade in a variety of riches and wealths. Alas, that town of old is in ruins as well as the city that once stood mightily before it."

Everything appeared to be far better many a year ago, you think, perhaps even decades ago.

You strain yourself to look beyond the fog and fail. It is far too dense. No matter, you think that you would be soon stepping foot in that town later on. This you think of when Balin begins to ask if the man was from there.

"Excuse me, but um . . . ," he stammers as he approaches the thickly clothed, dark haired man with caution. Upon hearing Balin's words, the man quickly points his weapon toward him and sees the older dwarf raising his hands in submission. "You're from Lake Town if I'm not mistaken?"

The man did not respond. But Balin needed him not to.

"That barge over there," (the man looks back for an instant) "It wouldn't be available for hire by any chance?" He looks confused with what the dwarf asked him. There aren't many dwarves running about here nowadays, you assume and the man was flustered as to why there are suddenly thirteen (or fourteen if he knew not what a hobbit was) of them appearing out of nowhere. No doubt he even wondered why you were there accompanying them.

Despite these suspicions you thought up for him (some of which are true), he lowers his weapon probably realizing that you all are no threat to him as of now. He is a necessity, you all need his service.

When the man walks through the stony shore to a barge that floats there idly, he casually sets down his bow and quiver onto a wooden box on the deck. The mere sight of that bow made you feel ill and so did the feeling of the half an arrow in your pocket. Without even feeling it beneath your clothes you know for a fact that it is yours. Well, of course you know, you crafted your arrows yourself. You know it well, like a sailer knows the sea or a king his kingdom.

You're running amidst the orcs who want you dead chasing a company of dwarves and a halfling who ride barrels across the river. You eye the river searching for an empty barrel and at last you find it. And in a matter of seconds the blond elf appears from behind you and so does an Orc. You of all people know why he loathes you and he shamelessly shows it whenever the opportunity presents itself. Like shooting your arrow through your heel. A wondrous parting gift. And now he is in possession of your most beloved weapon. You feel neither angry nor upset. Perhaps something in between. A dejection. Or more irate. You could not tell. It being your last remembrance of your father and mother, you assume you will burst into tears or in a fit of rage. Surprisingly, you did none. _I do not blame him for hating me . . ._

The others and yourself are standing by near the man's barge. This vessel is made entirely up of dark wood which at some areas cracked and appear rotten. The wood even creaked against he billowing wind. The mast bares no sail, and instead a long, narrow, wooden pole is fixed upon the tail of the barge, possibly used to steer it. The deck is broad and bare, awaiting its freight.

Surprisingly, the barrels are all there standing adjacent to each other. Whether the dwarves have put them there or the man did it, you did not know. The barge's sudden appearance on the shore also made you wonder. You did not hear it move through the water or see it passing through the fog. You later on deem that the man had other routes that are unknown to you since he probably had been doing this for quite a while.

He rubs his gloved hands together in the cold air and says, thinking oddly of the company before him, "What makes you think I would help you?"

"Those boots have seen better days, as has that coat," Balin says, his voice seeming unusually kind even for him.

The man ignored the dwarf and began rolling and lifting the barrels onto his barge. He appears like he is somewhat enjoying this show of desperation.

"No doubt you have hungry mouths to feed,"—he laughs uneasily—"how many bairns?"

The tall dark haired man loaded the last barrel when he, at last, speaks, "A boy and two girls."

"And your wife, I imagine, she's a beauty?"

"Aye," he hesitates, "she was."

Balin's cheerful demeanor fades upon realizing what he had said. "I'm sorry," he stutters, "I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, come on, come on. Enough with the niceties." Dwalin interrupts, looking ill with all the kindness shown by his brother as he eyes the bargeman.

With a slightly crooked eyebrow, the man asks, "What's your hurry?"

"What's it to you?"

"I would like to know who you are and what are you doing in these lands."

"We are simple merchants from the Blue Mountans," Balin intervenes, not wanting his brother's bearings to ruin this opportunity to get across, "journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills."

You could have sworn that the man turned to toward you right before he gives Balin a look of pure disbelief as he speaks, "Simple merchants, you say?"

"We need food, supplies, weapons. Can you help us?" Thorin says.

That weapon part seems to have made the man all the more suspicious. He turns to the barrels upon his barge and examines them. With a hand on one of the barrels' rims he brushes his thumb against the broken and splintered wood. "I know where these barrels came from."

Thorin looks worried—for once. "What of it?"

"I don't know what business you had with the elves," he says turning back to you all, looking smug as ever, "but I don't think it ended well. No one enters Lake Town but by lead of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade from the Woodland Realm,"—he unties the rope docking his barge to the shore and turns to Balin—"He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil." He throws the rope to the older dwarf wordlessly saying that he has no interest in whatever deal he might conjure up.

The dwarves, of course, are a persistent bunch. Thorin immediately mouths to Balin that he continue persuading the man. This is but the last chance to get across that lake.

"I'll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen." The man continues his business preparing his barge for the return trip.

"Aye," he says. "But for that you would need a smuggler."

"For which we would pay— _double_."

Never before have you seen the man look so tempted by an offer.

 

Thranduil looks down upon yet another wretched creature that kneels before him. Not long ago did another of their kind do the same in this very spot in the circular platform before his high risen throne. All lowly beings are meant to cower before him and this one is not even worth laying a finger on. His son did that for him, with a sword pressed against its neck and while the captain of the guards, Tauriel, bear witness.

"Such is the nature of evil. Out there in the vast ignorance of the world it festers and spreads. A shadow that grows in the dark. A sleepless malice as black as the oncoming wall of night. So it ever was. So it will ever be. In time, all foul things come forth."

"You were tracking a company of thirteen dwarves, why?" Legolas presses the blade closer to its throat.

"Not thirteen," it snarled, glaring at Tauriel for some purpose. "Not anymore.

"The young one, the black head archer, we stuck him of a Morgul shaft. The poison's in his blood." The creature's twisted mouth curls into a smile. "He'll be choking on it soon."

Tauriel looks like she has been stricken down herself. "Answer the question, filth."

_"I do not answer to dogs, She-elf!"_

Her blade unsheathes.

The prince glares down at his captive, threatening him with a word of warning, "I would not antagonize her," he says but the Orc did not listen.

"Do you like killing things, Orc?" She asked, her face revealing no emotion— but her eyes reflected a deep worry and rage. "Do you like death? Well then let me give it to you!"

In one swift movement, she lunged forward with her blade cutting through the air. She awaits the sound of the orc's head crashing down onto the ground, instead she hears the stern voice of her king.

 _"Enough!"_ He commands in their tongue and she immediately ceased her attempt to kill the beast. _"Tauriel, go now."_

Reluctantly she left with her blade clean from Orc blood.

"I do not care about _one_ dead dwarf," Thranduil says plainly, now immensely annoyed by the orc's futile presence before him. "Answer the question. Tell us what you know and I will set you free."

"The girl," Legolas begins, earning a glare from his father, "what is her business with the dwarves?"

The Orc laughs, sounding more accurately like it is being strangled beneath water. " _You_ of all should know, Elfling. You were in his place. But he _will_ perish."

He pressed the blade closer to the orc's skin. Never again will he be taunted by that foul memory. All that remained from that day was betrayal and ire. Then comes the significance of the dwarf in all this.

"You had orders to kill them, why?" He asks sternly. "What is Thorin Oakenshield to you?"

"The Dwarf _runt_ will never be King."

" _King?_ There is no king under the mountain nor will there ever be. _None_ would dare enter Erebor whilst the dragon lives."

"You know _nothing_. Your world will burn."

Legolas has has enough of the orc's nonsense. "What are you talking about? Speak!"

"The time has come again. My master serves the _One_."

Thranduil stared blankly into nothingness upon hearing the orc's words. For the first time in ages, the king is concerned—shaken. _It cannot be . . ._

"Do you understand now, Elfling? _Death_ is upon you. The flames of _war_ are upon you!" The orc's laughter crackles—

A blade flashes through the air and a heavy thud resounds. The orc's body quivers and trembles on the ground while it's head remains in the hands of the Elven prince. He stares at it, disgusted, for a moment as he processes what had just happened. Then he turns to his father.

"Why did you do that?" He asked, "You promised to set him free."

"And I _did_ ," The King says, encircling the orc's still trembling carcass like a vulture encircling its dying prey. "I freed its wretched head from its miserable shoulders." He steps on the carcass, at last making it cease quivering.

"There was more the Orc could tell us," Legolas says, looking straight into his fathers eyes. And he gazed back, looking more stern and emotionless than the prince could ever comprehend. 

"There was nothing more it could tell _me_." The King turns tow walk away.

"What did it mean by the flames of war?" He unsheathes his blade whilst responding: "It means they intend to unleash a weapon so great it will destroy all before it.

"I want the watch doubled at our borders, all roads, all rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it,"—he stops to turn toward his son—"No one enters this kingdom—and no one leaves it."

 

Legolas approaches the vast gates of the realm and the three guards that stand by it. In his language he says, _"Close the gate! Keep it sealed by order of the king."_ He then turns away; other matters still need to be—

_"What about Tauriel?"_

The prince, slightly annoyed and fretful, stops in his tracks.

_"What about her?"_

As the guard speaks, the prince approaches him.  _"She went into the forest, armed with her bow and blade. She has not returned."_

 

You watch the stone shore fade away behind the veil of mist and fog, unknowing that soon orcs would be swarming it, sniffing for blood—Dwarf blood—and tracing the faintest smell that they know very well of, yet not completely alike,—Man flesh.

The man steers the barge from the end with the large pole you saw earlier, putting your suspicions to rest. The others placed themselves beyond or beside the barricade of barrels away from the bargeman. Bilbo—besides yourself—is the only one to have approached him and actually spoke to him.

"I'm sorry, I never got your name." He says politely and curiously with his voice slightly above a whisper. If you hadn't been so close you might have not heard at all.

"Bard," that is what he said and the hobbit replied with his name. Although your unsure if that is what you truly heard. When Bilbo, shivering in the cold, returns to his place near Bofur, you approached the man nonchalantly and yet you could not bring yourself to ask for some reason. You blame the cold.

"If I may point out," he begins, holding firmly onto the steering mechanism as he looks to the misty distance before him, "you are no _dwarf_."

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips, "And so are you."

The strangest feeling of eyes burning their stare upon you sets. And that is odd seeing that there are sixteen beings on this barge. You soon wave off the feeling, but it did not cease.

"May I ask what you are doing with this company of dwarves?"

You cannot help but smile. "It is a long story." _And I would not wish to retell it at the moment._

"I would not mind," he says not turning toward you,—although a faint smile ghosts upon his lips—before adding, "Lake Town is still far off. The current is not as strong as you can see. Rarely do we get strong winds here either—and dwarves for that matter."

"A hobbit as well," you add. He looks at you wide eyed and confused.

"A halfling—Bilbo." You motion to the hobbit in question and he nods, not seeming to want to question the topic further.

"How did you come by them?"

You recall your attempt to catch up with them on foot and the first exchange of glares you had with Thorin. An awkward situation indeed. You remember wanting to stuff him down a hole and shoving your arrow up—well, certain areas that need not be recalled. Nevertheless, that memory brings back older ones that are uncannily similar. Those memories are best left untapped.

You turn to face Bard who meets your eyes and you think of what to say to him and where to begin—and what to begin with.

You have not met much Men in this journey and it is quite odd to be reuniting with your kind at this point, and so the completely human nature of being social sets in. The lines of the story you intend on telling him forms swiftly in your mind and you say—

Thorin calls your attention.

You hesitate a moment and glance at Bard with raised brows before approaching the dwarf king on the other side of the barrier of barrels. He immediately pulls at your arm, bringing you closer to him. This immodest gesture shocks you and you look to him wide eyed with a crooked brow.

"I don't want you speaking to him." He whispers harshly into your ear. This coldness in his voice seems awfully new to you now that you've witnessed his kindness.

"There is nothing wrong with speaking to—" you pause abruptly, coming to a revelation, "You're envious."

Undoubtedly, he appears bewildered at your notion; slowly, it dawns on you that he may not be envious as you formerly stated, but the thought of it amuses you somehow and you keep the possibility of it.

"What makes you so certain that he is to be trusted?"

You fall silent—choosing your words carefully. At length, you shake your head solemnly and speak, "I am not certain of it. I am not certain if he will take our money and abandon us or bring as safely ashore—"

"Precisely why you should cease speaking to him," his stubbornness takes hold of him. "We are unaware of his intentions therefore he is a threat to us all."

"Or an ally." You mutter to yourself.

He asks what is it you said and you reply with a single word "Nothing" before resting against the side, watching the rear and the mast cut through the mist, leaving wisps of cloud; in the water floats chunks of ice in various sizes, yet another sign that Winter—and Durin's day—is approaching—speedily.

Thorin seems to be annoyed for a moment or two at your obstinacy— _he for one is the epitome of such and he should not blame I for mirroring his demeanor._ He did not seem to do anything of it for that matter.

This sudden silence between you both surprisingly becomes so uncomfortable and you know not if you should apologize. After a moment of pondering over it, you decide to do such, but never did.

 

Bard focuses intently on the mist before him. The long wooden pole is firm in his hands as he steers his barge through the mist. _It is not long now . . . ,_ he thought.

The shapes and figures looming and waiting beyond the veil of mist were incredibly vague—unless you were Bard. He has been out on these waters for as long as he could remember. Each rock and stone he knew well. Well enough to even steer blind—and that is exactly what he is doing as of now.

It is his task to bring the barrels to his shabby little town on a lake. This task is the least boring of them all, he would think. At least he could go off and away from ever watchful and deceitful eye of the Master—and the unruly pet he commands.

Nevertheless, he would always return—for his children.

Today is not like any other day for the bargeman. He expected a load of barrels as usual and he does have them, yes—along with a company of merchants, as they call themselves, who he is now smuggling through his town.

Two of the suggested merchants had come to speak to him—surprisingly with nothing horrid to say. One of which was a man but not one. He was no dwarf or elf either. He was kind alright, even gave his name. The other, a woman—you, came up to him yet said nothing. After he spoke to you, he comes to a realization that you were not as sour as the dwarves. You meant to tell him what truly happened—a fraction of it, that is, how you came across these dwarves.

However, cantankerous male dwarf with blue eyes never let you began. You both spoke in hushed voices and the dwarf appeared to be scolding you. He did not listen thus forth and did not realize that you both ceased speaking shortly afterwards.

Bard continued on with steering his barge through the mist and fog. He prepared for a sharp turn and—

"Watch out!" One dwarf cries out, he wears a hat and clings onto the mast.

—he sails smoothly past the large stone that appears behind the mist.

"What are you trying to do?" says the blue-eyed, ill-tempered one. " _Drown_ us?"

"I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf," he says simply, then adds, turning toward him, "If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here."

He saw a faint smile come and go across your face and wondered who you were exactly.

 

"Oh, I've had enough of this lippy lake-man." Dwalin says, sounding incredibly bothered. "I say we throw him over to the side and be done with him."

"Oh, _Bard_ —his name is _Bard_." states the hobbit. (You know not why however Thorin appears ill at ease at the mention of his name.)

"How do you know?" Bofur asks.

"Uh . . . I asked him."

"I don't care what he calls himself, I don't like him." Dwalin says, still sounding incredibly bothered.

"We don't have to _like_ him," says Balin quite eagerly as sits and counts the coins, arranging them in stacks of fives. "We simply have to pay him.

"Come on lads, turn out your pockets."

The dwarves hesitantly rummage through their pockets. The notion of paying Bard double now seems like a horrible one at that. You did not bother to check yours—you haven't had a single coin in your pocket ever you left Dunland.

From behind you could hear Dwalin mutter to Thorin amidst the noise of the water. "How do we know he won't betray us?"

The king sighs deeply, aggravated. "We _don't_."

The muttering ceases shortly afterward and you release a tired sigh. Turning to Balin, you watch the older dwarf count and stack the coins being handed to him by his fellow mates. Your hands unconsciously slide into your pockets and you surprise yourself with the sudden presence of your arrow there (what is left of it). You toy with the sharp edges with your fingertips while Balin speaks of ill news.

"There's um . . . just a _wee_ problem," he looks at the crowd around him. "We're ten coins short."

Thorin immediately turns to Gloin with his arms crossed. "Gloin, come on," he says and the dwarf recoils, "Give us what you have."

"Don't look to _me_ ," he looks offended, "I have been bled _dry_ by this venture!"—they cease listening to his cries and stand, marveling at the distance—"And what have I seen for my investment? Naught but _misery_ and _grief_ . . . "

He notices them standing, looking on in the distance and stands as well. Now, he sees—now, you see the splendor that hides beneath the mist, waiting to be reclaimed by one who truly deserves to rule, _Erebor_.

The light of the setting sun shined generously upon it, shedding colours of auburn and gold on its peak that is veiled with opaque clouds. You were in awe before this majesty recalling tales and songs about its beauty.

"Bless my beard," Gloin utters beneath his breath, shattering the silence that came over you all. Quickly, he rummages through his pockets, taking a sack of coins out and urging Balin to take it. "Take it, take all of it!" he says and Balin eagerly takes it from his hands.

Bilbo clears his throat.

Just as you turn to him, you see Bard hurrying toward you all. "The money, quick," he says, gesturing to move with haste. "Give it to me."

Thorin eyes him, blue eyes filled with ire. "We will pay you when we get our provisions, but not before."

"If you value your freedom, you'll do as I say," Bard looks beyond the mist. "There are guards ahead."


	20. Rivetingly Leaden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It also occurred to you that you have been imprisoned an drowned countlessly over the course of this venture. Nevertheless, that does not change the fact that you are in a barrel of fish.

There you are once again.

In a barrel.

This time at least you need not evade arrows or orcs—just being seen by your fellow Man.

You are confined in this barrel which becomes more of a small fortress or a prison without bars, and the only command the warden gives is not to leave your cell.

The barge is docked at an unknown port at this moment and you all await impatiently for Bard's return. It has only been a few minutes when they begin muttering and whispering but some would shush them promptly. This gesture would only keep them silent for a short period of time.

 _"Shush,"_ says Dwalin harshly and the muttering silences. "What's he doing?"

Bilbo, who is somewhere near you, looks through the hole which is most conveniently placed in his barrel and watches Bard's actions.

"He's talking to someone, and he's—pointing right at us!" He muffles his cries to a suppressed call of distress.

"What?" says Thorin, sounding anxious and enraged, again, not far off somewhere.

At length, Bilbo speaks again, "Now they're shaking hands."

"He's selling us out." Dwalin concludes grimly.

Then you hear a grumbling noise fast approaching, tempting your curiosity to rise and see what it is. But after which, all fell silent. _What was_ —

It comes raining down upon you, whipping you with its tail and smearing its oil and grease over you once it comes into contact. The putrid odor of fish swallows you whole until it is the only thing you could breathe. You are swimming in fish so to say—if that could ever make sense.

The earthy scent of horses and the land, you are far too accustomed to but fish, not at all. It is absolutely disgusting.

You could scream if you could. Unfortunately, you are not privileged to do so because if you even try to open your mouth, no doubt you'd be having dinner early.

 

 _This must be inconspicuous enough,_ Bard thinks and ponders further of what to say if ever he is questioned about the barrels fish. He already used more than a quarter of the coins to pay for them. Fifteen barrels full do not come cheap, not in this or any town as it seems, but at least he would have more than a months worth of food for his family—and the folks who cannot afford it.

Muffled cries emanates from the barrel in front of him and he gives it a good kick to shut whoever-it-is-inside up. "Quiet!" He says while doing so, mindful of the loudness of his voice. "We're approaching the toll gate."

Before the town of Men, old wooden houses, boats, fisheries, docks and wharfs is a large iron gate watched by guards standing by on both ends—only at the command of Percy, the kind middle aged man who checks the barges and boats that come into town, can the gates be opened.

"Halt!" Percy calls out as he sees the barge approach the gate. "Goods inspection! Papers please!"

The barge stops in front of the iron gates, on both sides of it are wooden platforms, one of which Percy and his small tollbooth stands. Bard, striding nonchalantly, steps out of his lodging.

"Oh!" The other man exclaims upon seeing him, "It's you, Bard."

"Morning, Percy."

"Anything to declare?"

"Nothing." Bard says before adding, "But I am cold and tired, and ready for home."

Percy sighs into a nod, "You and me both."

The bargeman brings out his papers from his coat pocket and unfolds it as he presents it to Percy. The man gladly takes it and examines it for a moment before turning to the table behind him and stamping the paper. He then hands it to Bard with a kind smile on his face; he says, "There we are, all in order." The bargeman never expected it to be this simple—

"Not. So. Fast." A familiar and dreadfully irritable voice speaks and Bard's heart sinks to his feet. It _never_ is this simple.

A man, named Alfrid, appears from the dark, hunched over with a brow that stretched from one side of his face to the other. Two larger men clad in armour follow him from behind. Bard never thought of seeing the Master's pet here—then again he is always persecuted by the both of them. Alfrid snatches the paper from Percy's hand before Bard could take it and begins to read what is written:—

"Consignment of _empty barrels_ from the Woodland Realm."—he points to the barrels whilst walking toward them—"Only, they're not _empty_. Are they, Bard?

"If I recall _correctly_ , you're licensed as a _bargeman_. Not . . . " he takes a fish, unaware of the dwarf's eye now visible, staring at them with dismay. " . . . a _fisherman_."

"That's none of your business." Bard says, hoping for the better and ignoring the dwarf peering out.

 _"Wrong,"_ Alfrid says, a smug smile across his face, "It's the _Master's_ business, which makes it _my_ business."

"Oh, come on, Alfrid. Have a heart, the people need to eat!"

" _These_ fish are illegal." He throws the fish in his hand into the canal then turns to one of the men behind him. "Empty the barrels over the side."

"You heard him!" the man commands the guards near the gate, "In the canal!"

The guards, with more coming, gradually board the barge and grab hold of the rims of each barrel. "Ugh, it's heavy," they complained to themselves, "What are in these barrels?"

"Come on! Get a move on!" The man shouts.

They begin shuffling the barrels to one side, inclining them slightly so that the fish slide off the top. Bard could do nothing but watch anxiously.

"Folk in this town are struggling," he tells Alfrid, hiding the fret in his voice, "Times are hard. Food is scarce."

"Not my problem."

The sound of fish splashing against the water grows louder and quicker as the barrels empty. Bard needs to think of something—and quick.

"And when the people hear the Master is dumping fish _back_ in the lake?" He says, sounding more stern now, "When the _rioting_ starts?"

Alfrid glares up at the bargeman.

"Will it be your problem then?"

The man groans, glancing at the barrels and raises his hand in defeat. "Stop!" He calls out petulantly and the guards heed his command. They begin drawing back the barrels onto the barge, supposedly somewhat relieved that they would no longer lift the cumbrous barrels. They soon left after this, leaving Bard and his barge and barrels to himself.

The bargeman could breathe at last.

"Ever the people's champion, ey, Bard?" Alfrid looks to him in disgust, "Protector of the common folk. You may have their favor now, bargeman, but I tell you it won't last." He turns and walks away from the barge, stopping near Percy and continuing to eye the man.

"Raise the gate!" Percy shouts to the guards after seeing that the dilemma has been settled. The guards spin large wooden wheels with chains that creaked as they pull the gate open. A loud click is heard when the gates fully opened and Bard, quite calmly, steers his barge through it.

"The Master has his eye on you," Alfrid threatens the bargeman as he passes. "We _know_ where you live."

"It's a small town, Alfrid." He replies as matter-of-factly, "Everyone knows where everyone lives."

 

Alfrid moves about in the Master's bedroom musing over the bothersome bargeman earlier today. He needs to be imprisoned, that's it for sure, he thought as he watches the ceiling drip water down into a pale. He opens a window near the bed. The Master had been sleeping all day for what reason, he cares not. He takes the pale, now full with water, and moves toward the window once more.

The Master awakes from his sleep and rises from his bed, wrapping his arms around his stout belly. His first utterances was his annoyance with the townsfolk. Apparently he awoke from a horrible dream of the people overthrowing him. The Master tells Alfrid this.

"All they're pleading and begging. Nonsense. It's complete and utter nonsense. What do they know of running a town? If it were not for I, then this town would be in ruins!" The Master shivers violently in the cold.

"All this talk of civil unrest, someone's been stirring the pot, Sire," Alfrid says and throws the water out of the window which closed as he did. The Master limps out of bed while the water splashes about from the closed window. His leg stings him with pain and he falls back sitting on the bed.

"Gout playing out, Sire?"

"It's the _damp!"_ He says, shivering now, "It's the only _possible_ explanation. Now,"—he suppresses a belch—"get me a brandy."

"The mood of the people, Sire, it's getting ugly," Alfrid says, putting down the pale and moving towards a dresser with a tray of glasses and a bottle of brandy atop. A large painting of the Master hung above it.

"They're commoners, Alfrid," the Master says, "They've always been ugly. It's not my fault they live in a place that stinks of fish, oil and tar.

"Jobs, shelter, food. It's all they ever bleat about."

Alfrid pours the brandy into a glass—takes a swig of it—and hands it over to his Sire who immediately took it from his hands and gulped it down like it was water.

"It's like a leaf, Sire," he says, pleased that the man never noticed him drinking from his glass, "They're being led on by troublemakers." He only meant Bard.

Somehow managing to draw energy from the drink, the Master stands and makes his way toward the staircase. "Then we must _find_ these troublemakers and _arrest_ them!" said he, trotting down into his study—although he clearly does not use this much for studying at all. Walls are lined with shelves that reach the high ceiling and thick columns stand adjacent to the gaps between each shelf. Tables and documents lay scattered on the sides but a larger table stands at the end of this long chamber. It rests on a platform in front of a large window that overlooks the town and lake. The table itself is laden with glasses and plates among other documents such a maps. This is where the Master heads off to as he complains about his townsfolk

"And all this talk of change must be suppressed," he says, pulling up his loose trousers, "We can't afford to let the rabble band together, start making noises. The next thing you know they'll start asking questions, launching committees," he pauses to pour more brandy—from the bottle on the table—into his glass and turn to Alfrid, continuing, "launching inquires."

"Out with the old, in with the new," Alfrid states simply, moving calmly to the Master's side.

"What?"

"That's what they've been saying, Sire," he lowers his voice into a cold forbidden whisper, "there's even talk of an _election_."

"An election? That's absurd!—I won't stand for it." The Master turns and begins to walk off, and from the direction he is at, the balcony is where he is headed.

"I don't think they're asking you to stand, Sire."

The Master, clearly vexed by the mere thought of him being removed from his position of power, opens the doors to the balcony with sheer force. _These people can barely think for themselves_ , he thinks, _the gall of them—the audacity! The folly!_ He looks out at the town before him and scowls. "Shirkers, ingrates, rabble rousers!" he cusses at them, banging his fist down the railing of the balcony. "Who would have the nerve to question my authority?" He wonders aloud, and enraged, "Who would _dare_? Who . . . ?"

Then he comes to a realization.

"Bard," he pauses, appalled that he did not realize this before. Of course! "You mark my words that trouble making bargeman is behind all this!"

 

This predicament has resulted for you to momentarily forget how to breathe. The slimy, wet bodies of the fish surround you however cannot simply be ignored. Bard may as well have prepared us dinner, you are immensely famished and tired by now, and that better be not fish.

It has been an age since you've seen the light or breathed fresh air—ten minutes in actuality but you still think it had been decades. It also occurred to you that you have been imprisoned an drowned countlessly over the course of this venture. Nevertheless, that does not change the fact that you are in a barrel of fish.

You still feel the vibrations of the barge moving beneath you, and you still hear the water parting as the vessel passes. At one instance you could hear a boy in his youth speaking to Bard. His son? You wonder, remembering that the bargeman had children. The man tells his supposed son to go to the house or something of that matter, the fish seem to muffle their voices. After a few moments of attempting to listen to them better, you realize that they ceased speaking all together.

It is miraculous how long you held your breath. It has not been long before you could not bear it: the confinement and the lack of air. The first large gasp was unbearable, you recall, especially with the rather small fish squirming promptly into your mouth as you opened it. You spit it out with utter disgust and the fish returns to its brethren—to its cold, dead, and raw brethren.

You consider yourself fortunate enough that the next few breaths were not as horrid has the first. Not as, but still horrid enough. Then, as you continue to breathe in the appalling air, the most remarkable thing occurred: the vibrations ceases and footsteps are heard moving about on a wooden floor.

A deep thud resounds as well, making you wonder and slightly fretful—until the groans from a distressed and very much irked dwarf reassured you. Another thud and set of groaning is heard until the distinct grumpy sound of Dwalin's voice speaks, "Get your hands off me." He says and you emerge from your barrel to see what is going on.

Fish are sent flying out of the barrels whilst you all peer outside, enjoying the moment out of the putrid capsule. You look around and see some dwarves on the ground on their stomaches. Bard has been barrel tipping, I see.

At first glance you know not what to make of the town, but then you soon realize that instead of streets, this town of wooden houses has literally fragments of the freezing lake before their doorstep—or before their dock-step as it seems since the town is quite literally a dock as well.

 _Now is not the time to be musing over your surroundings_ , you tell yourself and remember to get out of the barrel. It is not as easy task as the dwarves may make it seem. Even the hobbit has trouble. Turning to Thorin, who is already standing by his company and leading them off the barge, you wish to ask for his assistance however you think he may still be vexed at you. I need not his help, your self reassurance falls short and you topple out of the barrel face first into a pile of fish. After which, you dust yourself off and move to Bilbo's side amongst the company and pretend that never occurred and that you did not smell slightly more like fish. Bilbo's muffled snickering however seems to imply that he noticed your little incident. You roll your eyes at him, jokingly.

In the short distance behind the company, you notice Bard conversing with a man—a middle aged man also clad in thick garb. He stares at you all confusedly and you wonder if he had seen all recent happenings—including you falling out of your barrel. You see Bard discreetly handing him a coin from his pocket and whisper something. "You didn't see them . . . never here," that is all you heard for the first part, the second is in a far softer tone and all you understood is "fish" and "have for nothing." Whatever he said entirely, you never brought it up.

In all honesty, know not why you trust him. He may have just saved you all because he himself is afraid to be apprehended or is he truly this kind?

"Follow me," Bard says, interrupting your string of thoughts and cuts smoothly through the crowd. Thorin exchanges looks with Dwalin in utter distrust before reluctantly following the man through the town.

It appears like this town was built, flooded, and rebuilt again. And for whatever reason it is still before the doors of a dragon infested kingdom, you know not. Perhaps they do not believe that Smaug is dwelling—or, more supposedly, sleeping there as of today. And the calmness of the environment makes you wonder if a dragon truly lies beyond the walls of that Mountain.

You have faith in Thorin, whether or not he may be angry with you for if he knew why you are truly here, then there is no reason for him not to be.

The lineup of the company continues to follow Bard off into who knows where, and it is not long before you somehow walk along beside the stubborn goat but you say nothing to him and he, to you.

A tall young boy, somehow oblivious to the odd bunch behind, appears from around the bend directly in front of Bard, who is, apparently, the boy from earlier.

"Da'," the boy says, looking awfully troubled, "our house! It's being watched."

The bargeman quickly turns to you all with an odd look on his face, a look mixed with fear and doubt. You, at first, did not know how to react to the situation. Perhaps, you are infuriated at the annoying sounding man named Al—something (Aldred?) back at the toll gate. He is behind all this, for sure. Or perhaps you are worried of what the outcome of this might all lead to.

This uncertainty has lead you only to one thing, however: it made you want to retreat to your haven. And apparently your haven has been grasping your hand. You are tense beneath Thorin's hold when Bard begins to tell you all what to do. He provided no further explanation and no other option. "Time is quickly passing," he said, eyeing each one of you, "You're going to have to trust me on this." After he said this he momentarily dismissed himself, leaving you all with his son.

The boy, like all the others in this town, wears thick garments and gloves, making him oddly appear like a younger version of his father. His hair is a dark—lighter than his father—and is a thick bunch of curled tresses while his skin is fair, almost pale, unlike his father who is more tanned than he.

He tells you all where to go in a hushed voice, and tells you all of certain areas that to avoid. "Over there, on that corner," he says pointing far north of where you all stand. "There's an ally, don't pass through there, I saw one of the spies smoke their pipe there. And the children near the open dock beyond that house, they're a part of it as well." He goes on like this until his father returns.

"You must all move, quickly," Bard says, "there is little time."

"You just better ensure your end of the bargain." Thorin says before you all part with the bargeman and his son, and head toward the path the boy told you of.

"This is an awful idea," you mutter to Thorin's ear after a moment of walking. "What other choice do we have?" He replies in the same hushed tone.

"Anything is better than wallowing in someone else's filth."

 

The bargeman and his son, Bain, had just finished telling the company what to do. Earlier today Bard saw his son walking along the dock. He saw this as his opportunity to get the upper hand against whatever Alfrid meant by "the Master has his eye on you."

"Da'! You're back!" He recalls his son's eagerness upon his arrival, the incident with the 'merchants'—if they are merchants—made him lose track of time.

Bain looked perplexed at his father's sternness. "Son, go to the house." He says plainly, "I'll explain everything later, but now I need to know if there are spies about." His son obeyed his father, even though he was hesitant and compelled to question why.

Now, Bain is asking his father once again, although with the sense that there are unsuspecting spies around, he could not risk being overheard.

"I will explain once we reach the house," he says in a whisper only his son could possibly hear, "This matter is not safe discussing outside. Did you bring what I asked you to?" The boy nods and shows his father the small ragged sack of bread, a prop so to say. And with that, they continue to walk to their house,—the act, an unsuspecting son with his father who had just finished a long day's work. They did not look to people straight in the eye or glance at them in anyway to avoid suspicion. But at the same time it was suspicious if you did not look to anyone. They merely acted as if it is a normal day; thinking of how to act normally is clearly harder than just doing it out of habit. Thus, no one suspected them of anything or looked to them in an odd manner, unless you count the numerous spies scattered near their home.

Their said home is yet another one of the small dilapidated wooden houses around the town—the Master's residence being the largest of all. And like most of which, the main door is above ground, connected to a small, faded, balcony-like platform which can be ascended to by an old, creaky, flight of stairs. Their house in particular sits in front of one of the many areas of the town where the lake is exposed, like a sort of miniature river that cut through the town, pointing exactly toward the Mountain of which songs and tales are sung and told. It is also one of the many houses that brimmed the city and is blessed with the glorious sight of the Lake and the woodlands far beyond the fog brewing.

Bard has always lived here, remembering well each bark of elder wood and crack and crevice of his house. And he knows if something is out of sorts, especially with the folk.

Luckily today, he need not deduce whether or not they are spies of the Master or not for his son already told him most of those involved. By the time the bargeman and his son tread on the stairs, he had already noticed most of them. Two of which were the fishermen seated in a small boat in front of his house. From his understanding, no two fishermen will look into the distance, nod inconspicuously for no apparent reason, and cast their rods calmly and simultaneously in a crossed position. And from what his son told him, they were in league with the Master—another part of their audience.

Upon approaching the threshold of his home, he ceases and turns back to the fishermen whilst he reaches in the rugged sack. He whistles in a high tune to get their attention, and they immediately turn around to look up at him on the elevated platform. The bargeman tosses them a loaf of bread, saying, "You can tell the Master I'm done for the day."

The act is over, but not yet quite finished—the dwarves are still to be dealt with. For now, he does not think of them but simply enters his home like he always does after hours of work.

He has not even finished shutting the door when his youngest daughter, Tilda, rushes into his arms. "Da'! Where have you been?" Bard returns her warm embrace.

"Father, there you are," calls out the soft voice of his eldest, another daughter, Sigrid, "I was worried," she joins the embrace.

This is the part of the day where Bard could feel true bliss and warmth. A large portion of which he lost the day his wife passed away. He found it awfully difficult to recover. Not even the birth of his newborn child—Tilda—could fill his heart with joy for it was left to wither in despair over his lost love. Nevertheless, he had to cope. He had Sigrid and Bane, who were young children then—he thought they've forgotten the incident—and now Tilda, a innocent newborn who knew her mother for the most fleeting of moments after being born into this world. Bard never spoke of that day and tried his best to forget it ever occurred. But it grows harder for him to do so as the years pass and he soon realized that the only way to forget it—to be at peace—is to accept the fact that she is gone.

"Here, Sigrid," he says to his daughter as they part, and hands her the sack of bread; she gladly accepts it and puts it away. Bard then turns to his son, whispering, "Bain, get them in."

Tilda, unintentionally, hears his father's words and wonders what he means by 'them.'

 

A staircase lies near the back wall of their small home. Bain quickly rushed down the steps onto the lower dock that looks outward to the Lake. A small doorless shack stands opposite to where the stairs led down to. This area is, perhaps, the only area of their home wherein no one could see you, regardless of the open space. It is definitely secluded and discreet. No doubt there is a reason for this. In this shack, a single item remains: a toilet.

Bain stomps his foot hard onto the wooden floor and promptly a dwarf's head emerges, greatly infuriated and eyes burning with ire, from the toilet. It is no other than Dwalin.

"If you speak of this to anyone," he says in an ironically soft yet threatening tone, "I'll rip your arms off." He pushes the toilet seat up as he rises and Bain, acting upon instinct, attempts to help the—

"Get off." Dwalin smacks his hand aside and drags himself out of the toilet. This moment is shameful enough.

The boy, quite amused and afraid, points to the stairs. "Up there," he says as he does so. Dwalin, never seeming any less enraged, trots up the steps to the bargeman's home, completely ignoring the two young girls who look to him questioningly (while such is occurring Bain helps the confused and irate looking hobbit out of the toilet.)

Sigrid watches in aghast at the dwarves suddenly appearing from their toilet—there is nothing else down those steps but that and she could see them emerging from there. She knows not if what she sees is a hallucination. For a moment she wondered if there had been something she had eaten that shouldn't have been—or something excreted. She immediately regrets thinking such.

"Da'," she begins, "Why are there dwarves coming out of our toilet?"

Her sister stares at them in wonder. "Will they bring us luck?"


	21. Putrid Radience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the center of town, a large structure stands, the largest for that matter since it is where the Master dwells, it is also known as the town-hall.

Never again will you speak of what just occurred. You will not even mention it. The only thing that did occur is what happened after which:—

Shivering and wet, you walk up the steps into a larger chamber which is not as large as you think it to be. From where you entered you could see the front door clearly, bearing proudly its worn wood and rusty hinges. Near this, a hearth is placed, its flame flickers and burns bright, warming the room, and, along old shelves and tainted windows, is a long table with no intricate carvings of any sort. There are no chairs brimming it but perhaps they are folded somewhere and or hidden until used, it reminded you of the old round table you had in your home before. No doors or walls separated the kitchen and the same case for a bedchamber of some sort consisting only of one bed.

Ornaments and all sorts of fruits and berries hang on the beams on the ceiling. The walls are also hidden beneath shelves of books, dressers, and other documents and items such as candles or brushes. Old rags seem to be scattered about in a strategic manner, near the windows, the table, and the kitchen. The atmosphere is that of a rustic shanty similar to the one you lived in in your days of youth.

No matter where you are there will always be the wealthy authority figures, master over all the commoners who, day by day, struggle to keep food on their table. In the large city of Edoras or in this small town on a lake, the situation appears the same but the outcomes always differ. Sufferings always differ from one family to the other.

Returning to the matter at hand, the story, you look around the house, taking in each detail of it before looking toward the people who currently dwell there.

The eldest young girl. Bard is speaking to her and with his son and daughter. She is a fair girl—or should I say woman—at about the age of eighteen. Her hair is light brown and curly much like her brother but she had bright blue eyes unlike her male sibling and father. And so did her sister, curly light brown hair and bright blue eyes—both of which could not compare to Thorin's. Soon after, they ceased conversing and the two young girls head off into the doorless bedchamber and take heaps of clothing from a dresser.

From the corner of your eye, you notice something approaching. You look to its direction and see that it's just Bard. The girls hand over thick wool blankets to each of you. Once the blanket comes into your sight, you immediately take it, thanking her, and wrap it around you. However, you feel no warmth. It may be that Bard had taken the blanket from your hands—or that your wet clothes still cling to your body.

"Here," the little girl says, (you did not realize that she remained) handing you this long thick cloth. You wonder what it is and take it. You stare at them when you realize what you hold.

"You don't expect me to wear this? Do you?" You ask, trying to sound as polite as possible.

"This is the closest we have to your size." Bard replies, answering for his daughter. "Besides, you all need a change of clothes. You would not want to walk around in wet clothes, especially in this season."

The look on the little girl's face makes you feel guilty for some reason of which you are unaware. At last, you sigh in defeat. And promptly afterwards, the little girl moves on to hand clothes to the company. You could hear Bilbo thanking her in the distance. _It would not hurt_ , you wonder, _if I wear this . . . dress._

With this in mind, you bring the garb along with you as you return downstairs, where the bathroom is, to change. It is quite odd noticing that the dwarves just began to change when you left, then again . . . you suppose you'd rather not be in a room filled with half-naked dwarves regardless of any excuse you could come up with later.

It does not take long for you to change. You merely take off your shirt and breeches and wear the thing over your head—apparently it also comes with white lace breeches and so you wear that as well. The feeling of it is unusual. In the sense that it does not seem right. Dresses never feel right when you wear them. Especially when their not yours. This one had long white puffy sleeves and a sort of dark colored jumper with the straps over the button up shirt. It's voluminous skirt is ruffled at the edges much like the dresses Bard's daughters wear. You slightly feel like a pastry—and look like one in your opinion.

This is the first dress you've worn since the days of your youth when you still lived in Rohan. The dresses you wore were your sister's—when she was your age then of course. And you've always thought then that you did look like a pastry or a muffin. You have no strong feelings with or against the dessert-looking garb. But you would rather not wear them for the reason of running and fighting in one. It is a tedious matter all together and one would find it hard enough to run and shoot arrows at their foes, now imagine the same but with a floor length dress. You would be kissing the dirt far sooner than you think. Nevertheless, you will have to carry on with this somewhat nostalgic look—just until your old clothes dry at least.

Gathering your things, and placing your broken arrow in the pocket of your new garb, you make your way up the steps to see the dwarves, wrapped in blankets, seated near the fire, some even hold mugs of hot beverages—probably tea—and you ask from Bard the same. You sit yourself down near the fire on an empty stool and find the blanket that was taken from you earlier; you take it without hesitation and wrap it around yourself. Looking around the room, you see all the dwarves and the hobbit dressed in Bard's clothes. You're not sure if this is greatly amusing or awkward and you're quite sure they feel the same about you.

The bargeman's younger daughter hands you a cup of tea from behind and you thank her once again before sipping it gleefully. The tea gives you an immediate warmth, reviving you, expelling the cold. You turn to to the side, still immersed in drinking your tea, to a window where Thorin stands near. He looks so pensive, so still, it almost looks haunting.

 

At the center of town, a large structure stands, the largest for that matter since it is where the Master dwells, it is also known as the town-hall. It is much like any otter old dilapidated wooden home in this town despite it's size, the large wooden doors before it, and a tower, of which gives it nearly half of its height, stands upon it, glistening. An ancient glisten that ceaselessly reminds the town of its past for atop it is a ballista from the days of yore.

Marveling at it from a distant window is a being from the same era. A being who was present the day that weapon had been used in attempt to slay a beast who still remains to this day.

Thorin Oakenshield could not believe his eyes. "The Dwarvish Windlance," he mutters beneath his breath in awe.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." The bargeman says with a blank stare as he approaches from behind. The king does not bother to face the man, not while the anger towards him shows. Balin, seeming to have read Thorin's mind, speaks for him.

"He has. The last time we saw such a weapon," he pauses, grimly, "the city was on fire. It was the day the dragon came. The day Smaug destroyed Dale."

Thorin remembers that day well. Well enough to recall every cry, every scream, every wail for help. The sound of flames crackling, the ferocious thundering roars. The bright, blinding light from the flames that showered upon them. The hot dry wind, the burning flesh. The fear.

All of these come surfacing into Thorin's mind instantly as Balin speaks and every word is another recollection of the terror that came.

"Girion, the lord of the city, rallied his bowmen to fire upon the beast. But a dragon's hide is tough—tougher than the strongest armour. Only a Black Arrow fired from a Windlance could have pierced the dragon's hide," Balin looks to the bargeman, upset. "And few of those arrows were ever made. The store was running low when Girion made his last stand."

_And he missed every shot he took. Until he wasted it all; the arrows, our chance._

"If the aim of Men had been true that day," Thorin says, smiling humorlessly, "much would've been different."

He glances at your direction, wondering over what would have been if the dragon had been slain. Your fate and his would be not as it is. But you are with him now, and hopefully you will remain. _The Wizard has his wishes—but they are unfit for her. I will not allow—_

"You speak as if you were there." The bargeman breaks his line of thought.

No matter. Thorin turns away from the window, and faces the man. Sternly, he says, "All dwarves know the tale."

The man's son speaks, "Then you know that Girion hit the dragon. He loosened his scale under the left wing, one more shot and he would've killed the beast."

Dwalin chuckles, appearing from behind them, saying, "That's a theory story, lad. Nothing more."

The two men grow silent in disbelief.

"You took our money," says the king, no longer wanting to speak of that day, as he walks toward the man. "Where are the weapons?"

"Wait here." The bargeman leaves them.

 

Bard disappears down the stairs of whence you came and you look up at Thorin from your empty cup of tea. Without a second thought, you stand up, set the cup down in the stool, and approach him. He welcomes you with a smile that did not last a second. The stress is showing in his once vivacious eyes and you place a hand on his arm while you wonder what you could do to relieve him of his fret.

"You need to rest," you tell him. "You'll catch your death if you don't."

"That's unlikely," he says and smooths your drying hair. "There are still things to be done. I can't rest just yet."

"Autumn is not over yet. When that day comes there will be no turning back," you pause and gaze at his face. You could kiss him but they—Bard's children—were watching. They might not understand.

Before you depart from him, meaning to ask them (the children) for herbs or medicine for your wounds—and Kili's, you remind him, sternly but with care, "Rest while you still can, alright?"

"As long as your with me."

You rolled your eyes playfully when he said that.

Entering the kitchen, you watch the older young girl curiously as she does her chores. It is rather odd, you think. The girl reminds you of your sister when she did her chores. It's almost unreal. Like your viewing your past but another version of it.

A little girl runs past you, an arrow in hand, toward her older sister. She appears so real but it's a mere hallucination—a memory, you know, and you let it be.

"Is father home yet?" the little one asks.

"Not yet," she pauses before adding, "but he will be soon. Is there something wrong?"

"I . . . um," the girl looks to the arrow, "I lost it—I'm . . . sorry."

"Lost what?"

"Mum's bow. The one she gave father," she looks like she's about to burst into tears, "I lost it in the woods not far. I was scared so I didn't get it yet."

Her sister kneels down and smooths her hair, she was just a few years older than she is.

"It's alright, I bet it's just behind a bush or a shrub. I'll help you find it, I promise," the little girl lights up and her sister adds with a giggle, "Let's just hope the elves didn't steal it yet."

"There are elves in the woods!"

"Yes, of course! They live in beautiful kingdoms and palaces. They just don't appear unless they want to. Who knows? Maybe you'll meet an elf one day."

"When I grow up, I want to be best of friends with an elf and live in a palace with you and father. But I don't want the elves to steal mum's bow."

"Don't worry," she says and smooths her sister's hair again, "the elves heard you and promised they wouldn't do such a thing anymore."

It happened at this time of day in the kitchen as well. And you were unaware then of what is to come—when you find your bow behind a shrub; when you mistake a deer for an elf and chase it into the woods; when you grow older and do meet an elf only to have him despise you; when he does take your mother's bow. You suddenly remember where you are, standing in the threshold of the kitchen, watching the older young girl do her chores.

And you forget what you're about to ask her. What was that again? Oh, yes! Medicine—for Kili and yourself. Not that Oin did not do a tremendous job, it's just that you both were left untreated.

"Excuse me," you say and she turns to you with a gentle smile. "I suppose you don't have any herbs for a stab wound, do you?"

"What sort of stab wound, exactly?"

You roll your sleeve off and unwind your bandages.

"Oh, um," she begins, aghast for a moment. "I think we may have something in the cupboards. Hold on for a moment, please." She rummages through the glass bottles and jars, searching for whatever it is.

Thorin murmurs something from behind, near the dining table perhaps; you can barely understand him and so you shut your eyes. "Tomorrow begins the last days of Autumn," he says or something of that sort.

Then Balin speaks, in a far more hushed voice than him, and you wish he speaks clearer. "Durin's Day begins the morning . . . next. We must reach . . . before . . ."

"And if we do not?"—Kili's voice is surprisingly audible—"If we fail to find the hidden door before that time?"

"Then this quest has been for nothing." And so is his brother's voice when he says this.

"Here it—are you alright?"

You open your eyes. Before you stands the young girl holding a bottle of some watery green herbs, she looks concerned. You tell her you were tired.

Opening the jar, she says her name is Sigrid, that her younger sister is Tilda and her brother, younger as well, is Bain. At first, you thought of telling her the names of all the members of the company, but then you thought it will be better if she doesn't know. Wouldn't want her to be disoriented or confused. And so you tell her your name.

"Father told me you were merchants going to the Iron Hills," she looks to you and hands you the jar; you nod while taking it, not really knowing what to say. She continues, "From what I know, I am quite sure that dwarves live in the Iron Hills. Although I've never been there. And I was wondering why are you headed there? If you don't mind my asking."

"I am a close acquaintance of the company," you say, "I have business to take care of with them."

"If it is no bother, what sort of business?" You smell the open jar of herbs; these grow in the woods in Edoras, you recall yet forget what you used to call it.Taking a scoop of the wet herbs with two fingers, you, feeling hardly any pain, smear it over your wound and say, "I owe a debt to an old friend of theirs and mine. I am merely repaying him by helping them out on their venture." It is not entirely a lie.

After a moment, a loud banging and clashing of metal resounds. You turn to look over your shoulder and find Bard dumping a black plastic sheet of some sort on the table. He unravels it to reveal an array of weapons—if they could ever be distinguished as such. You finish tending to your now healing wound and bind it once again with the same bandages. Momentarily, you dismiss yourself and Sigrid does the same, returning to her chores. The dwarves surround the table, assessing the devices before them and you soon join them standing near Ori.

Thorin picks one of the so-called weapons up and examines it with a scowl of disappointment. "What is this?"

"Pike hook," Bard puts it quite simply, "made from an old harpoon."

"And this?" Kili holds up one of the items in question.

"A crowbill, we call it. Fashioned from a smithy's hammer," Bard looks around the room, watching them pick up and inspecting the items. "It's heavy in hand, I grant. But in defense of your life, these will serve you better than none."

"We paid you for weapons," Gloin complains, (perhaps mostly because he lost his entire bag of coins to this man) "Iron forged swords and axes!"

"It's a joke!" Bofur retorts, dumping down the iron device back onto the table. The rest of the dwarves did the same and the metal clatters down noisily.

"You won't find better outside the city armory. All iron forged weapons are held there under lock and key."

Thorin looks like he came to a revelation—which obviously involves stealing the needed provisions. Balin, however, thinks otherwise.

"Thorin," he says, "why not take what's on offer and go. I've made do with less, so have you,"—turning to the others—"I say we leave now."

"You're not going anywhere."

"What did you say?" Dwalin scowls.

"There are spies watching this house. And probably every dock and wharf in this town. We must wait until nightfall."

The dwarves groan in annoyance—they are clearly wearing thin from this man—and reluctantly sit themselves down once more, allowing you a closer look at the rusted iron pipes and chains. This soon disinterests you and you look around for Kili who sits down, trying his absolute best not to show his pain. Well, unfortunately for him, you can see right through his act.

You approach Sigrid once again, this time you ask more discreetly. "Kingsfoil? Do you have any?"

"I . . . ," she pauses to wonder, "I'm not quite sure. I know some grow around town, though I don't remember where. What do you need it for?"

"Nothing important," you lie, "but if you find any make sure to tell me." She nods in agreement and you leave her side. _I'm sorry, Kili, I'll have to find it myself, you'll just have to wait._

 

_Wait until nightfall._

The king scowls. _We have no time to wait—we've waited long enough_. He could curse the bargeman if he had not been helping them. If this could even be considered as help.

Thorin sits straight and leans against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. The said bargeman had just made his way for the door. Whatever he is up to, the king cares not. Leave us and never return, if you must. From the corner of his eye, he notices someone draw near but he does not change his stern expression.

"Tired of waiting already?" The sound of your voice brings him ease—not enough to change his state however.

"Sick of it," he replies, more agitatedly than he thinks.

You caress his arm. "We're so close," you say to comfort him but he remains neutral. "If this is something about Bard, well," you pause when he glances at you, "at least try to be kind. I know he's probably doing the same."

"It makes no difference if I be kind."

"Oh, my, you are a stubborn goat," you chuckle softly.

"He pelted us with fish, we wallowed in his filth, he gave us useless weapons. He wasted our money, now he's wasting our time. Indeed, he is trying his very best to show his kindness." Thorin takes a deep breath and squeezes the bridge of his nose. You lean up against him and stroke his hair gently. He looks up and gestures his company to come near. They heed his command without question, leaving you to wonder what he has in store. He lowers his voice to a whisper and utters, "When the sun sets, we make for the armory whether or not the bargeman is present."

"And how do you suppose we get there? We know not where it is." Balin says in the same hushed tone.

The sound of plates clatter and most turn to its where it emanates, you all appear to be on edge as it seems. It is nothing. Sigrid is merely continuing her chores, washing the dishes.

"I reckon it's highly guarded. The more guards, the higher possibility it's the armory." Fili says.

"Or a prison," Dwalin raises his brow. "We can't know for sure."

"I could just ask."

They all turn to you questioningly when you say this.

"There's no wrong, I could pass off for one of the townsfolk. They will hardly notice—"

Thorin intervenes, "You heard what the bargeman said—'It's a small town.' They'll know you're not from here."

"You don't know that for sure. It's worth the risk, unless you want to trot along town where there are spies about, searching for an armory that could be anywhere here."

An uncanny silence follows and it goes on whilst they ponder over the possibility of your plan. Thorin is still against it.

"She's right, lads," Balin says, breaking the silence. "You better hurry then."

 

Bard paces to and fro on the platform outside his front door, uncertain if what he heard is truly what it is.

"Thorin,"

He knows the name; he just can't remember where he heard it from before—from when he was young, but a boy, from a tale, from a tale of old. Or a song.

He turns and sees the Mountain beyond the lake glistening in the light of the setting sun.

No.

It cannot be.

The front door suddenly opens behind him, his son peers from it, "Da'?"

"Don't let them leave," he whispers to his son and leaves without another word.

 

Meanwhile, upon the stone shore overlooking the mist, behind which is an old town on the lake, an elf stands. She had run away, trailing blood and fallen orcs down the length of the river, in attempt to save a dwarf she had met only once in their dungeons. He does not deserve this kind of death.

Something cracks behind her.

Tauriel immediately wields her bow and aims an arrow at the fiend behind her. She nearly loosened her arrow when she sees who it truly is. It's about time.

 _"I thought you were an Orc,"_ she says in their tongue.

Legolas smiles, still holding the bow high, _"If I were an Orc, you'd be dead."_ They lower their weapons and he approaches, calmly saying, "Tauriel, you cannot hunt thirty Orcs on your own."

"But I am not on my own."

"You knew I would come."

She flashes a smug grin. Legolas continues, sounding more grave. "The king is angry, Tauriel. For six hundred years my father has protected you, favored you. You defied his orders, you betrayed his trust." She did not seem to be listening. "Come back with me," he says, "he will forgive you."

"But I will not," she replies in a cold voice, "if I go back, I will not forgive myself." She moves to the edge of the shore and looks beyond the mist with keen eyes that could see the outline of the town behind it; at length, she continues, "The king has never let Orc filth roam our lands. Yet he would let this Orc pack cross our borders and kill our prisoners."

"It is not our fight."

Tauriel turns to him in shock, "It is our fight. It will not end here. With every victory this evil will grow. If your father has his way, we will do nothing. We will hide within our walls, live our lives away from the light and let darkness descend. Are we not a part of this world?"

The prince says nothing.

"Tell me, _mellon_ , when did we let evil become stronger than us?"


	22. Frivolous Potency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the bells shall ring in gladness at the Mountain King's return. But all shall fade in sadness and the Lake will shine and burn.

There is a shop in Lake Town full of trinkets, tapestries, and antiques from the days of old when Esgaroth was the name of their town, when the mighty city of Dale stood before them, and when the kingdom of Erebor was free from beasts. An old shopkeeper remains here, sitting on a stool in the corner of his shop, using some of the tapestries as pillows whenever he takes his day long breaks. No one ever buys anything here anymore, unfortunately. It's but another reminder of their past and the future they so eagerly await.

Today, however, the bargeman comes in. He seems to be in a hurry.

"Hullo, Bard," the shopkeeper greets him, "What are you after?"

"There was a tapestry," he says, panting, rummaging through the pile of them, "An old one. Where's it gone?"

"What tapestry are you talking about?" There are plenty of old tapestries here.

The bargeman continues his search and ceases without warning, his eyes fixed on what's beneath him. "This one." he says, taking it and laying it out on a flat surface behind him. His hands fumble to spread the thick cloth, tracing the lines upon it. The line began with the words: Durin the Deathless.

Meanwhile, outside the shop, a woman and a small crowd of people gossip about what they had just seen earlier today. The woman washes her kin's clothes and her voice can be well heard within the shop, however she does not seem to mind.

"They were dwarves I tell you," she says, "Appeared out of nowhere. Full beards, fierce eyes, I've never seen the like,"

"What are dwarves doing in these parts?" A man asks.

"It's the prophecy." An older man replies.

"Prophecy?"

"Prophecy of Durin's folk."

Back in the shop, Bard gazes upon the tapestry of the line of Durin as it is written on the very top of the line. He remembers very little of the tale and song told to him when he was just a little lad. All he remembers is this tapestry shown to him by his mother while she told the tale of the Mountain. Generations of children must have looked upon this lineage before him, all fascinated by the history of the Mountain. But then they grew to fear it.

Upon the tapestry are markings and symbols—depicting the dwarves whose names are on the line—of gold (color) thread. 'Thráin' it reads somewhere down the lineage, next to 'Thrór.' Bard remembers those names although he is unsure who exactly they belong to. Down the line from Thrain, another name is written, 'Ferin', 'Dís' and a third of which he could not believe his eyes: 'Thorin.'

"A prophecy?" Bard mutters to himself, irked that he could not recall it fully, "Prophecy . . ."

He listens to the gossiping of the townsfolk as he racks his brain for enlightenment.

"The old tales have come true."

"Vast halls of treasure!"

"Can it really be true? Has the lord of Silver Fountains returned?"

Then the realization hits him. The tale and the song return to his memory like it never left. He mutters the lines as they come flowing back, "The lord of Silver Fountains. The King of Carven Stone. The King beneath the Mountain, shall come into his own," he rushes out of the shop, remembering the tale told to him when he was a boy, remembering the terror that awaits them in that Mountain. The King. The Dragon. The fight for his throne. The reawakening fear.

_And the bells shall ring in gladness at the Mountain King's return. But all shall fade in sadness and the Lake will shine and burn._

He runs back to his house, exhausted, gasping for air, fearing that the dwarves have left, wanting to unleash the monstrosity within the forsaken kingdom. Daylight is wasting. The sun has almost set. What has he gotten himself into?

From afar, he sees his son standing before their doors. His heart drops and he chokes on his ragged breaths. He runs up the steps, unable to catch his breath.

"Da'! I tried to stop them—"

"How long have they been gone?"

 

You stand behind a narrow alley between two old market stalls and scan the area for guards and people you could potentially ask.

"Just go up to anyone," Dwalin says, hiding alongside the others in the darkest recesses of the alley.

"I know, I know," you sigh, "just hold on for a moment." You take one final deep breath, dust yourself off, and walk aimlessly around the dock. The folk in this town hardly seem to notice you for the first moment—in other words, you blended in perfectly. Where to begin? Children run pass you, playing, shouting; old men lay asleep in their shops and stalls; crowds of people wash their clothes in the open water, conversing about tales and the like. You think you begin to look foolish, wandering around. People will start to notice. Hesitantly, you decide to walk toward the crowd and the creaking wooden dock beneath your feet brings you no such ease.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a voice calls out to you from behind. You catch your breath, flash a fake grin and turn to face the— _guardsman_.

"You appear to be lost," he says. "I've noticed you circled the dock more than twice and so I assume such." The man is clad in silver armour that caught the light of the setting sun. He wears a pointed helmet with a sort of fur or wool lining and the garb beneath his armour is of almost the same material, forming puffed sleeves and breeches that tucked into his knee high boots. The guardsman is armed, no doubt for his silver blade hangs loosely on his belt. His light curly hair is peering from his helmet framing his sharp features. But his eyes, brown they were, they made him appear calm and approachable.

"Ah, yes, I am—to be honest," you try not to sound anxious, _(what in the world do I say?)_ "I don't go about town that much. Uh, my—friend wanted to meet me—near the armory. And I seem to have lost my way," you look up at him, appearing as innocent as you can manage, "Can you, by any chance, help me?"

His cheeks flushed red to his ears—and you found this quite disturbing. "Of course, ma'am," he clears his throat and smiles at you. "This way," he places a hand on the small of your back and you try so incredibly hard not to push him away or maul him.

 _This is not what I meant,_ you want to shout, _I mean point me in the direction of the armory not lead me there._ Alas, you say none of this, fearing that the guardsman will turn you in for disrespecting him. You look back at the alley and see the dwarves from behind the shadows, you incline your head slightly, gesturing that they follow, and they begin to move off.

"May I ask what your name is, ma'am?" He sounds oddly stern for his sedate face.

_My name?_

Giving him your real name would not be wise. A safety precaution, if you will, to ensure that your true identity is unknown to them. _Which name?_

He scoffs lightly and you turn to him and say the first name that came to mind, "Kili," you try not to laugh and add, "It's short for Kilianne." The young dwarf prince can be furious with you later if he ever heard you.

"Thomas," he says with a short bow of his head, "at your service, ma'am."

He is a nice young lad and you soon find out much about him. For instance, he is new to his position as a guardsman, he's the youngest among them all in fact, and that he clearly fancies you—but he need not say anything for you to notice. Along your walk to the armory, which you wish could go much faster, he pulls over by a stall that sells bouquets of beautiful wildly colored flowers (that grow in Autumn in the nearby woodlands beyond the lake so says the salesman)—but few remained because of the upcoming Winter and most were on sale for the same reason. Thomas insists on buying some for you, his cheeks grows madly red while he did and it continues to disturb you more as each second passes. Eventually, he buys a single one (which you eyed because of its dark tips and bright specs of color, and it reminds you of the night sky), hands it to you, and you insist on proceeding to the armory of which he obliged.

He also smiles at you whenever you don't expect him to do such. He may be new as a guardsman but he should learn to keep a stern outlook. People will respect him more that way. You tell him this and he tries—then laughs it off when you say you didn't buy it.

You found it odd that he liked you seeing that you've never met him before. You know not what he knows of you that makes you so appealing to him. (Or do folk these days just look at appearances?) It was not horrid. He appears suitable and kind. But he won't walk fast enough—by that you mean you have Thorin who you care for deeply. He's your stubborn goat and no one could replace him.

"Who is this friend of yours, might I ask?" Thomas wonders aloud.

_Where is the damned armory?_

"Oh, he's no one really—just a friend." Your fingers fiddle with the flower in hand out of impatience. It's unwise to say that your so-called friend is Bard, I don't want him to be in any more trouble than he is already in.

The guard stares at his boots, "How long have you known him?"

"Not long. Is that it over there?" You point to an old large dark wooden structure just ahead. Two tall arched wooden gates serve as it's entrance and guards, all clad in the same armour as Thomas, walk about and pass by in pairs. The building had nearly no windows and the windows it does have were dark and tinted. The armory had been placed between two smaller structures, one seeming to be some woman's house (she peers from her window to close it). And the other an empty fish market which also sold fruits.

He looks up and nods, "It is."

Thanking him for all he has done, you begin to part from him gradually. "I best be off, waiting for my friend now. Good-bye, Thomas."

"Can I wait with you?"

You are just about to deny him (seeing that you could take no more of this normalities and that you have a significant other) when the events occurring from behind stop you in your tracks. The dwarves and the hobbit move about from behind the stalls, making their way around the bend to a possible entry point. Balin, who sees you, gestures you to go on speaking to the guardsman.

Thomas looks over his shoulder, "Is something—"

"No, nothing," you grab hold of his cheeks and turn his head toward you. With a forced smile, you withdraw your hands. "I was just about to say— _of course!_ I would love some company while I wait." You head for a bench in front of a stall nearest to the entrance of the armory and Thomas follows you, sitting beside you as well. You keep your distance from him, however.

The last light of the setting sun shines against Thomas' armour and brightens his face when he smiles while you greatly fight the urge to knock him unconscious and leave.

It's rude, you tell yourself, but then again you'd prefer to sneak in the armory with the company than to sit outside, distracting a lovestruck guard. Rather cliché, you think, and mundane. Oh, well, you're better off hoping he leaves soon rather than causing more trouble than you're in for.

Moments pass and the night soon creeps up upon the town. The once golden and auburn sky turns dark and bright specs of light scattered generously across the welkin. Only the moon, stars, torches carried by passing guards, and oil lamps that hang within the townsfolk's homes illuminates the darkness. But the dark soothes you, even if you once hated it. Thomas has just finished boring—entertaining! yes, of course, entertaining you with very not-at-all-boring tales. You could tell one or two of your own but you might just end up speaking of Erebor or Smaug. A man—let alone a guard—might not want to be reminded of a fearsome beast that still lives in the Mountain to this day. And so you speak to him of the common things you've experienced long ago like tending to horses, exploring the woods, blah, blah, blah. You bore yourself. Thank the stars you didn't fall asleep on your own accord.

"This friend of yours," he says soon enough, "does he truly intend on meeting you here? It has been a long while and no one has approached."

"I'm sure he'll—"

"Wait," he pauses and basks in the silence. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard nothing." Your fret builds within you.

"There it is again." Faint footsteps trotting on wooden floors resound. You swallow deeply, hoping that he does not hear the beating of your heart.

"Perhaps, there are vermin about," you say, placing the flower's stem behind your ear, and taking his hand reluctantly, "or maybe it's just children running around." He says nothing.

A faint thud sounds off in the distance. And for a moment you thought that was your heart dropping to the ground.

"Stay here," he says with a surety and a sternness to his voice as he stands and gradually makes his way to the side of the armory. In a quieter and swifter pace, you make your way behind him, ignoring his former command, and ensuring yourself that he will not see you. You watch as he reaches for the hilt of his blade and moves near the front wall.

Looking around, you see no guards afoot, no children, no folks of any kind. He makes his way to around the bend and you widen your gait. The tall guard you had been with bares a long stride—it annoys you greatly seeing that he could walk faster if he wished to. But now this becomes a great bother.

The wooden floorboards creak when you shift your weight.

He turns around—but it's too late.

You strangle his neck with the expanse of your arm and hold his head with your free hand; his body already arched backward and so you force him down, letting his head crash onto your knee. Thomas topples over, face down to the wooden boards of the dock. You assume he's just unconscious but he continues to moan. You look around and see no one.

Flipping him over, you round then straddle him, sitting on his chest with your dress puffing beneath you. His eyes half-lidded and you're unsure if he could hear or know you're there. If ever he's still conscious enough to do so, he would have heard your apology—right before you hold his head with your hands on both sides of his face, covering his ears and pressing against it with your utmost strength, lift his head up and send it crashing down on the wooden floor.

Thomas didn't move afterward. You checked his pulse and his breath. Luckily, he is still alive—limp and unconscious, but alive. You almost have half a mind to kiss his cheek for the kindness he's shown you, but you decide not to.

Standing over him, you muse over where to hide his body. You then remember the bench you both say upon earlier and decide to drag him over there and prop him up to make him appear like he fell asleep in his place (you would bound his hands back, of course, all you need is—ah! there it is—rope.) There were no faults in your plan despite the part of executing it. Thomas weighs more than he appears. You also admit that you dropped him more than once by accident and resulted to dragging him by his feet.

After this, you rush off to the wall behind the armory where the dwarves undoubtedly were.

 

Behind the armory the dwarves come across a high window that they deem to be on the second floor. It is obvious enough that they need stairs or a ladder—they merely need to substitute the needed materials to build such. And they later on thought of a plausible alternative: dwarf.

Some knelt with their heads on the ground, serving as a step. The next pile would have one dwarf stacked up on one another, so forth. Those who served as the stairs were the ones who could not probably make the long run—literally. Fili had just run down the side and up the ladder of dwarves soon after the first few sprung across the dock and leaped into the window in the same manner—some finding it easier than others. The only actual downside is the fact that guards pass constantly and that the town appears to be asleep or resting at this hour. This made the town unusually silent and that the slightest thuds that they make could be heard by any passing guardsman.

They had seen you with one earlier and Thorin could not even look in your direction. He knew that it meant nothing but you held him so close to you.

The king wouldn't admit that he was envious—that he _is_ envious—of the guardsman or Bard. They're of the same race. That's it. Nothing more.

 

Later, while they are still sneaking through the armory window, you manage to creep behind Dwalin and Thorin who both were ecstatic to see you—and they expressed this in the most neutral way possible.

Dwalin had been shushing the dwarves yet again when you approached, "Keep it down," he says with furrowed brows, and he and Thorin give startled looks at you when you walk nonchalantly to their side, half-meaning to surprise them.

Nori and Bilbo seems more delighted at your arrival; the hobbit even waved at you, a gesture you return to him with a smile.

Thorin, the austere king that he is, keeps his expression blank and unfeeling—he was glad to see you, you're sure of that. In a low whisper he says, "As soon as we have the weapons, we'll make straight for the Mountain,"—turning to Nori—"Go, go, go," he mutters and the dwarf makes a run for the armory in the same way that Fili did, eventually propping himself into the window.

"Next," the king says, motioning to the hobbit who does the same as the former. He then turns to you and bitterly regards the flower; you tell him to take nothing of it.

Soon after he eyed you coldly, he tells you to go, sounding more like he means for you to leave yet again. It was odd of him to glare and speak at you like that again like the first time you encountered each other. And you look to him as if you did something awful and remorseless. His gaze softens and he places his hand on the small of your back while telling you to hurry as an apology of some sort.

If that _was_ an apology, then you would have forgiven him. You first hold your dress up after forgetting you even wore such and make for the window in the same way as the rest. You nearly trip on someone's head and your skirt but nevertheless, you were able to grab the ledge and pull yourself in. No doubt this is far more entertaining than distracting guards.

Inside the armory is a beautiful assortment of weapons from axes to spears and—you felt relieved and saddened—bows. Without hesitation, you move to that area.

There are no fancy carvings or decor of any sort in the armory. It is as you would expect, a room filled with weapons arranged by its kind. The dwarves immediately begin loading up on this, piling on sorts of weapon atop another, even the hobbit has his arms full.

They collect an ever mounting heap of weapons and treated the stacks like food on a banquet. They were the starving guests who tried their best to keep their decorum or else the host who is not present will scold them or, in your case, execute them (if that's what lakemen did, you're not quite sure.) It is long before you notice that Thorin had already made his way through the window and began hoarding his own pile of weapons.

The dwarves have been throwing down weapons randomly into their pile, while you, quite calmly, are walking through the hall with bows displayed on racks and quivers that hang on the walls, inspecting, and meticulously choosing a suitable bow that could replace what you had—nothing could replace it but you at least try. There are no probable candidates if you are to continue your exceptionally high standards. So you lower the bar quite a bit. And, at last, after going through the row for the fourth time you select a bow and quiver which you find competent enough.

You make your way to the rest of the company and decide to help them hoard for purposes which are beyond you. You noticed that Thorin later on gave his pile to Kili whilst he continued to select weapons. The king asked if his nephew was alright, clearly concerned for his health, and the young dwarf prince said he could manage and that he just wished to leave. The young prince then heads for the stairs that spiraled down adjacent to the wall and a pillar.

This reminds you to go and search for—

Metal clatters to the ground. Loud thuds resound.

Kili had fallen.

Then it comes booming like a storm approaching from far beyond the horizon, the thunderous treading of guards upon the wooden ground screaming their battle cries to signal the presence of thieves.

This alerted the company and yourself, but there is no time to react.

They appeared out of nowhere, suddenly flooding the room, the dwarves attempted to take hold of a weapon and fight back but the guards had spears pointed at their necks—to Bilbo's and yours as well.

The guards take back what is theirs and bring you all down and out of the armory. What you see before you made you watch in awe: nearly every single townsfolk had been awakened, swarming around you all, raising their metal bars and torches in protest.

"Thieves! Crooks!" They wail. The town, however small, clearly had no tolerance for your actions. The guards lined you all up and brought you all through the town. The townspeople brimmed the path before you all like a walk of shame. They raised their torches in the air while the guards pushed you all further. You see Thomas in the crowd somewhere, looking disappointed. You look back at the company who avoided the eyes of the crowd and the grasp of the guards.

_Another day, another prison._

Soon, you all stand before the largest structure in town, the town-hall, the same one that Thorin had seen through the window earlier this day. The clamor of the crowds no doubt awakened whoever it may be inside.

A man, hunched over with a brow that extended across his forehead peers through the doors and sees the crowd raising their torches and metal rods and whatever they could find to show their protest. He seems to be in shock for a moment when he sees this and retreats back into the large building. The guard pushes you forward before coming to a halt and you stumble. You nearly strike the man's face if it wasn't for Bofur holding your arm back.

You turn your back to the guard and see a large man—presumably the Master of the town—burst through the doors as he tied his robe. "What is the meaning of this!" He yells and stops on the porch. The other man with the hunched back moves to his side.

"We caught 'em stealing weapons, Sire," a guard, whose voice you find familiar, states.

"Ah! enemies of the state, ey?" The Master looks down upon you all smugly.

"A bunch of mercenaries if ever there was, Sire." The other man said, sounding like Al—

"Hold your tongue!" Dwalin snaps and steps forward with his head held high and his voice cold and harsh. "You do _not_ know to whom you speak. This is no common criminal, this is _Thorin_ , son of Thráin, son of Thrór!"

You turn to the dwarf king beside you and smile as he steps out beside Dwalin, announcing, "We are the Dwarves of Erebor. We have come to reclaim our homeland." The crowd began to murmur and mutter to each other, unsure if he speaks true. Thorin, as if he read their minds, walks further, proving himself to them, "I remember this town in the great days of old," he says, "fleets of boats lay at harbor, filled with silks and fine gems. This was no _forsaken town_ on a lake. This was the _center_ of all trade in the North!" He sways the folk with his voice, strong and loud like the king he is, "I would see those days return. I would relight the great forges of the Dwarves and send wealth and riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!"

The townsfolk bursts into cheers of delight, roaring and booming in gladness over a king who has, at last, returned.

It's like a dream. A tale from your youth, now you've witnessed its joy firsthand. His presence. The fulfillment.

But it all grows silent.

"Death! That is what you will bring upon us." A man yells and pushes through the crowd. His face scorned and familiar. _Bard_.

"Dragonfire and ruin," he pauses and glares at Thorin, "if you waken that beast, it will destroy us all."

You shake your head disapprovingly and look away, afraid that Thorin will see through you and realize you somehow felt the same.

"You can listen to this naysayer, but I promise you this; if we succeed," Thorin pauses, hesitant for a moment, " _all_ will share in the wealth of the Mountain. You will have enough _gold_ to rebuild Esgaroth _ten_ times over!"

The crowd cheers once again, louder this time.

"All of you!" Bard yells, "Listen to me—you must _listen_!"—the crowd goes silent yet again—"Have you forgotten what happened to Dale? Have you _forgotten_ those who _died_ in the firestorm?" This made them contemplate and mutter sadly to one another, nodding. "And for what purpose?" He eyes Thorin coldly. "The blind ambition of a Mountain King, so riven by _greed_ that he could not see beyond his own desire!"

The dwarves beside you attempt to lunge at the lakeman with their fists high in the air, you among others, did not allow them. You look up to find Bard looking at the crowd, at you and you shake your head at avert his gaze.

"Now, now," the Master upon his porch speaks, "we must _not_ , any of us, be too quick to lay blame. Let us not forget, that it was _Girion_ , Lord of Dale, _your_ ancestor, who _failed_ to kill the beast, _hm_?"

"It's true, Sire," the man (Alfred? was it?) says in the same tone you heard him speak at the tollgate, "Arrow after arrow he shot. Each one missing its mark."

Bard trembles in his boots, he now faced the Master, accepting the truth in his words and the notions of shame wrought from a mistake long ago.

Thorin looks to the bargeman, unsure if what he heard was correct—unsure how a great ruler such as Girion's descendant could have ended up a bargeman in a town like this.

"You have no right," Bard says, sternly as he approaches the king, " _No_ right to enter that Mountain."

"I have the only right."

At that moment, snow begins to fall and silence comes over all. Defeated, Bard stands there unmoving, his hands curled into fist, watching as Thorin turns to face the large man.

"I speak to the Master of the men of the lake," he begins, "Will you see the prophecy fulfilled? Will you _share_ in the great wealth of our people?"

The Master hesitates, but a sly smile tugs at his lips. The crowd sides with the supposed King Under the Mountain and his talk of wealth and riches while Bard had been ignored. Whoever this dwarf truly is, he cares not. This opportunity to win the town over has presented itself upon a golden platter.

"What say you?" Thorin asks.

" _I_ say unto _you_ . . . ," he speaks at length, " _welcome_!" The crowd booms into cheers, the thought of wealth fuels them to rejoice and so did it blind them. "Welcome and rise! Welcome King Under the Mountain!"


	23. Amorous Rancor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enthusiasm they show is enough for one to believe that Erebor had already been reclaimed. But the thought of the dragon did not leave your minds.

A young girl dressed in old rags for clothing limped as she made her way to a kingdom she had never been to before. She fractured her leg not long ago when she fell down a steep hill and crashed upon a shore of rocks in the forest and been beaten half to death by mercenaries beforehand. Her blood flowed from her head, neck, and leg, drenching her, bathing her in it. Those who inhabit the kingdom are the only ones who could sustain her living now—in more ways than one. But she had not reached it yet.

Her leg collapsed beneath her weight.

The rock hewn path pierced and pushed against her skin, drawing droplets and gashes of blood. And the continual pain of her broken leg did not help lessen her suffering. Agony feasted upon her like wild dogs picking on old bones.

She dragged herself down before the gates of the kingdom, desperate and hopeless. The guards in front of the gate were disgusted by her presence.

"Leave, cretin!" One said when he saw her dragging her body on the path.

"I am dying," she replied wearily as she lay on the ground, savoring each breath, "I will not bother you. May you at least spare me . . . something to drink?"

 _"Inform the king of the girl,"_ the other guard said in their tongue. Little did they know that she understood.

 _"I doubt he would do anything to aid her,"_ the guard replied and went to report to the king.

Soon after, the guard returned to his post, his assumptions correct, and they both disregarded the girl who was indeed dying. The king had said that she was a waste of time and effort and that he would not allow a peasant walk in his halls, tainting the air with its filthy breath. A command was even given that if she die there before their kingdom, her body be thrown into the forest for the creatures to feast upon her carcass. He had condemned her to death and all that's left is to wait for it to come.

An hour or so passed and the girl was still clinging onto life but she slowly began to lose hope as time passed. It came to a point where she longed for Death to end her burden.

Moments later, the prince of the kingdom emerged from the doors. He told the guards to go inside, drink wine, and leave him be for the time being. They did so without hesitation, perhaps joyous at the thought of drinking the king's wine. The young prince then looked down upon the dying girl when they left.

She did not know who stood behind her but she wished it was Death even if it was most unlikely.

"Have you come to tell me to move . . . or kill me at least?" She spoke in a soft voice, nearly inaudible, still laying upon the ground with her face against the dirt.

He did not answer.

"If you are not seeking to . . . _end_ me then, I'm afraid I cannot—" she coughs, "—move. I'll just have to rot here. Pardon my . . . intrusion."

"We have food and drink inside." He said, though she felt as if he mocked her.

The girl trembled and struggled to prop herself up against the wall, as she did so, she said, "And I suppose you are famished."

At length, he spoke, "My father would let you die here—"

"So be it."

"—but I would not."

For the first time, she had looked behind her and saw the Elvish prince. His blue eyes gazed upon her mercifully but she looked up at him in dismay and confusion.

"Come," he said whilst he lifted her up (she hesitated for a moment before complying), careful not to cause pain to her injured leg, "before my father notices my absence and the guards' drinking his wine."

The prince had taken her into his chambers, washed, and clothed her before laying her down on his bed where he personally nursed her, using mixtures of herbs he had read of in books and bound her leg. She did not speak while he did so but she was able to muster up the strength to ask him why he was being kind to her.

And he replied, "Goodwill, I suppose. You were in need, and I decided to assist you. That is all. You may leave once you are healed."

She wished to question his motives, but thought it better if she did not and merely pondered over what his intentions could be.

He then gave her food—which consisted of leafy vegetables—and wine. The girl could not satisfy her hunger with greens alone so she filled herself with the wine and later on she fell asleep, drunken. While the prince, regal as he is, rested upon a chair for his kind does not sleep instead dreams. And he dreamt of the girl and his friend who had recently left on a mission to rid the forest of horrible creatures.

During the night, he awoke and the girl still slept soundly. He thought of what she asked earlier of how come he's showing a great deal of kindness to her. At this time, he was unsure if goodwill was truly the reason why. Maybe the prince saw a bit of himself in her or something completely odd—in a good way.

Come morning, the girl told him her name and the prince gave her his. The girl continued to lay down, bedridden and the prince would care for her in secret. She would drink wine until she lost consciousness until he began to give her mutton to eat which she was extremely grateful for. This went on for days then the days grew into weeks. Some days, the prince found it hard to remain for he had his duties and so he left her food where she could reach it and cared for her in the night when he came to dream yet again. They exchanged many tales in their nights together, tales of their past, their kin, and thoughts about their past and kin whether it may be horrid or not. He quietly sang her songs in Sindarin and she would do the same in the Common tongue. They did not worry about the king or anyone else entering his son's chambers for there was no reason to.

One night in particular, he laid down next to her and saw that her condition had improved. _It would not be long before she is able to walk once again,_ he thought. The girl noticed this as well. For a moment, the prince imagined his days without having to care for the girl whom he grew fond of. They were bleak despite the adventures of his daily life. But he had lived for centuries and knew well not to attach himself to a short-lived race.

"Thank you," she said, "for all you have done. I would have died if it had not been for you," and embraced him. He placed a hand on the nape of her neck and leaned into her embrace. Soon, she fell asleep and the prince dreamt again.

Later that very night, just before dawn, the girl awoke in the prince's arms. She placed a lingering hand upon his cheek before slipping away from his grasp without his knowing.

She stood without faltering and headed for the door. She stopped near the threshold and then turned and went to rummage through the prince's cabinet. The girl found blades and a bow and quiver among his clothes. And she took these, the weapons, before she left.

There were guards about. They soon dropped to the ground when she passed, swiftly and unspoken. A pool of crimson formed around their open gashes when they fell. One by one, they fell.

There were no conflicts. They did not even realize an intruder had been killing them off until it was too late.

She then came across the king's chamber and entered without a sound. The king laid there, dreaming whatever it is he dreams. With the prince's bow and arrow, she aimed for his head—holding the string back for a moment—and fired. _Now, for his son—_

The arrow snapped and deflected.

The king, awake and armed with his blade, stood mightily before her. She could not match the king who did not even grow weary. One moment she had him for the kill. The other, she fell back, beaten, bruised, and scarred, fighting for her life against the king.

She would have died that day if it hadn't been for the prince who entered the king's chamber. His father was just about to finish her, his blade held tight and pointed at the girl's chest. The prince looked down upon the dying girl, her eyes filled with ire and darkness. His father had forced her to confess to them who sent her to do this crime but she told them little.

Even if she had, much was revealed. The prince knew that she was not the same kind and gentle girl he had taken in. She was unknown to him. And she was taken to the dungeon come dawn.

The prince took the blame for letting in the intruder, and the many deaths that took place. He did not speak of this incident later on, not even to his close companion—the captain of the guards who returned a few moons after.

He came to the dungeon later that day when the king was absent since it was his duty to check on their prisoner at that time. And there he found his father, wielding a whip with tips of steel, lashing the girl repeatedly against her back. There were no sounds but that of the whip cracking at each blow. Silence drowned her pain. But that did not mean she could not feel it.

The prince felt no mercy and watched, knowing that she deserved her punishment. 

_I do not blame him for hating me . . ._

–

The old wet shabby town upon the Lake had once been quiet and rather desolate. But then comes Thorin Oakenshield, the King Under the Mountain, and his company of dwarves, a hobbit, and well, of course, you then the town gleams as bright as the sun, dancing and singing the songs of yore. Some chattered about gold and waited upon the Mountain to glow golden and the river turn bright with riches that flowed from the Mountain itself. Others ate and drank and feasted, retelling tales from a time once lost to them.

The townsfolk rejoices whenever one of you passes and cheers whenever they see the slightest bit of a dwarf may that be his nose. The enthusiasm they show is enough for one to believe that Erebor had already been reclaimed. But the thought of the dragon did not leave your minds.

The Master has housed you all in one of the larger residences. Not as large as the town-hall, but regardless you are all content. The house, as large as it is, has seven bedchambers. Two dwarves or hobbits or men has to occupy a single one, with one of which fitting three. The arrangement is as follows:—

Fili with Kili; Gloin with Oín; Dori with Ori; Nori with Bifur; Bofur with Bombur; you with Bilbo; and Thorin with Balin and Dwalin.

You did not complain. Well, tried not to, at least. Bilbo is your friend and if Thorin does not wish to room with you then it is his loss.

 

Upon entering your designated bedchamber, you eye the room, feeling somehow uncertain. A hearth stands, unlit, across from the bed of which is made of wool or cotton of some sort (like any other room this one was lit by candles on stands mounted on the walls.) The cabinets and bookshelves were old and laden of clothes and books respectively. Around the room large paintings of landscapes and forests hang.

Bilbo enters the room as well while you remain pensive, still taking in your surroundings. The hobbit placed firewood into the hearth and lit it, illuminating the room with its flame.

"Is something the matter?" He asks you while he warms up.

"It's the bed," you say.

"What about it?"

"It's been so long since I've lain down on an actual bed and I've forgotten what it's like."

"Well, uh," he begins, unsure of what to say to one who hasn't lain on a bed in ages, "it's comforting. And soft. Like sheep."

"It's like laying on a sheep?" You suppress a laugh.

"Yes, I suppose. But, uh, I don't think you've—or I've—done so before. No? Uh, then, perhaps it's like laying on grass but much, much softer." You bothe chuckle at each other with wide grins right before the hobbit asks, "Why haven't you—you know?" He gestures to the bed.

"I travel often," you say, "I usually don't stay in inns since I can barely afford them."

"And when was the last time?—you lain on a bed, I mean."

"I was ill then and someone decided to help me," thr sound of a voice hauntingly returns to your memory,  _Thank you, for all you've done._ "But that was years ago. Past is past and it will remain that way." Little did you know that you look completely miserable. Bilbo's gaze softens, looking far more concerned and pityful.

A reassuring smile flashes on your face. "Well, I'll be off taking a bath for a moment," you begin to walk to a cabinet.

"While I go take a look at dinner," he smiles, looking fairly excited. "Or take nap." He stands and stretches his arms upward.

"Or both," you tell him, looking over your shoulder.

"Yes, that would be nice. Nap first then." He chuckles as he makes his way for the bed and you laugh silently to yourself. You are in need of a bath—especially after your entrance to Bard's house—and since there is only one large bathing chamber, you decide to get there first. Rummaging through the cabinet you see old garb, pantaloons and puffy sleeved vests that appear more like costumes than casual wear. Somewhere in the cabinet you come across towels and hand Bilbo one of which. As you gaze upon the odd clothing you recall something and scowl.

You left them, didn't you?

You left your clothes at Bard's house.

Searching yourself for them, you find nothing except the arrow you saved in your pocket and the flower that is still tucked behind your ear.

Great. Now, you're stuck in that dress, unless you decide to wear the odd things you—no? Alright. Dress it is.

Taking the towel, you make for the bathing chamber not far from your room, leaving Bilbo with an "I will not be long." The bathing chamber has two wide wooden doors and a large tub that could fit a small crowd of people. It's like a spring, you tell yourself, that you could heat up when you wish. You first pass through a high ceiling chamber with a table at least fifteen feet long and benches of the same length on either side. The sweet smell of a pantry and cellar creeps in. This gets you ecstatic about eating, since you haven't eaten in a long while. You dream of mutton and roasted or brazed lamb and ale or wine and fresh fruits—you stop before you salivate.

Taking another step, you hadn't realized that the bathing chamber is now right before you. The doors are wide open and steam pours through it like the mist on the lake.

Silently, you wish that you hadn't been there. Truly, the tub could fit a small crowd, let alone a crowd of dwarves. Naked dwarves, yelling, standing, and whipping each other with twisted towels. They didn't seem to regard your presence for they boldly continued . . . whatever it is they are doing. You lost your appetite and wished for it to return.

Shutting your eyes, you scurry away aimlessly, hoping that the vivid images would dissipate. But they did not.

Upon your blinded hurrying, you bump into a wall. But the wall speaks, asking, "Are you alright?" sounding more like Thorin. You open your eyes and see that it is he, fully clothed as well.

"Tell your company to shut the door when they . . . ," you couldn't say it. Thorin could hear their rambling from here and understands.

"I will," he says, a smile upon his face whilst he brushes his lips against your brow.

"Go on then," you playfully pat his chest. He chuckles beneath his breath (you savor that brief moment) and moves forth to the bathing chamber where he says something in his tongue before entering and shutting the door behind him.

The clamoring and yelling did not cease and you could feel your heart wanting to leap out of your chest and smack your reddening cheeks. The thought of a certain dwarf unclothed comes into mind and you try to rid of the upcoming mental images before your face flushes completely red. You turn to continue on your way and— _thud!_ —you do hit a wall.

 

The moon is still high when you gaze out the window. The snow fell, slowly, like small feathers of white eagles that soar through the sky.

Fiddling with the flower that Thomas had gotten you, you wait patiently for the dwarves upon the couch near the windowsill. The dining chamber and the pantry is not far, you wonder and lay your head on the tinted glass plane. _That could wait, after I . . ._ You yawn.

You are wearier than you think.

"No," you mutter to yourself, forcing your eyes open when you begin to doze off. "I will not succomb—succumb to this. This. _This_." Your eyes were already shut and you soon fell asleep against the window (leaving an odd forehead mark on it which you didn't notice later on.)

Once you wake, you immediately see the doors to the bathing chamber ajar and rush, staggeringly and half-asleep, towards it. Returning only to the couch when you forgotten your towel.

 _With the dwarves done, I could bathe in peace,_ you thought whilst you enter (knocking firsthand, wouldn't want to walk in on someone.) The air is no longer warm and steamy. It must have been long since they finished. _How long did I sleep?_

The moon is still high in the window when you awoke and you suppose you slept for an hour or so.

The tub is filled with warm water when you came across it. You suppose it always was like this or this may be a kind deed of someone who saw you waiting for your turn. Anyway, you are grateful for not having to wait to fill the tub back up and you shut the door. The bolts were busted for some reason. Oh, there were no bolts. Of course.

Hopefully, they'll knock before wanting to enter—so you may decline.

Stripping yourself down, you place your clothes and towel on a rack near the tub and a large movable framed curtain or divider of some sort and immerse yourself in the warm water, releasing a deep sigh of contentment while you do so. Words cannot express how joyous you are to be out of the cold and to finally have a bath—a warm one at that. You allow yourself a few minutes to soak in before you look around for soap. You find a bar of which near the faucet and make your way there. When you grab it the soap slips in your grasp away from the tub. How delightful.

After releasing an exasperated sigh, you stand with the chilling cold sudden clinging onto your body and move to retrieve the soap.

 

Dinner has already been cooking and oh, how famished is our dear hobbit. For a creature that was used to eating more than five meals a day, skipping on second breakfast was horrid enough. Especially going days without a single hearty meal. The last good one he are was at Beorin's house. Or was it the deer you caught? He forgot if that came first or not.

Regardless, he is absolutely exited for dinner. _This better be a banquet,_ he thought. _I may even finish an entire roasted pig if there be any._

But before any good meal, as Bilbo knows, is a warm bath. He prepared steaming hot water about half an hour ago and left it to cool off in that time. Now, it's about time to be getting back.

He stood from his place on the long table an headed toward the bathing chamber.

"Where ya going, Bilbo? Dinner's almost ready," says Bofur with a smile across his face as he placed chalices and tankards on the table.

"I'm going to take a quick bath," he says, halting in his place and holding the towel you handed to him earlier.

"Quick as you can manage, laddie. Wouldn't want to miss another meal, would you?" Balin says and chuckles to himself, "oh, and if you come across the lass, tell her to come on down here for the meal. And Thorin as well, he's had a long day and in his chamber napping."

"Of course. Well, I'm off," Bilbo says and continues on his way. He passes Thorin, Balin and Dwalin's room and stops in front of it hesitantly. Waking a slumbering dwarf—especially a cantankerous one—is just as horrid as waking a slumbering dragon; the only difference is that you wouldn't be burned by a dwarf, just chopped into little pieces with their axe or sword or whatnot. The hobbit raps lightly on the door, hoping beyond hope that Thorin was awake at that moment. "Uh," he says, "Balin told me to tell you to come down to the table."

There was no reply.

"Hullo?" Bilbo wonders if he had been talking to an empty room.

Then he heard a faint, "I'll be out in a moment."

He thought this was good enough a response and went on his way. And when he gets there he finds the door shut. He forgot if he left it ajar or not, although he recalls closing it. Nevertheless, he opens the door and finds the room how he left it. The tub is filled with warm water and—wait, isn't there supposed to be soap there? He shrugs it off and—are those what he thinks it is? They are. They're your clothes.

"Hullo?" His voice echoes off the room. No one answers. He looks around for a moment and took a second to piece some notions together. He didn't fully believe it but found it plausible and awkward as it is. _Nope, not even going to think of it—be quiet. The mental images are frightening, Bilbo Baggins. Don't want to lose your appetite, now, do you? Just get on with your bath._

 

Well, here's an awkward situation to be in. Your standing naked, only to be clothed by your towel, behind the large curtain divider while someone else is literally bathing not far from you on the other side. And to make matters worse, your clothes are on the other side as well. How you came by this predicament is quite lacks good sense that is for sure. Firstly, he did not knock, he of all people should be the one to knock before entering. Secondly, he left his perfectly warm water without any warnings not to use it. Thirdly, running outside would suggest that—"Yes, I used your bath, Bilbo, sorry." You might as well massage everyone's feet as well as a note of apology. Lastly, hiding was the easiest escape route. Anyway, you'll find a way out eventually.

You hear the hobbit's clothes rustle and try to block out the—

A clang resounds.

Something small, metal? hits a surface. Like stone, no. Like a—ring. Bilbo does not seem to be married. If he is then why doesn't he wear—but no, it cannot be.That's not it. There has to be another option.

You remember a golden gleam from before, just before you entered Mirkwood, that accursed place. And the figure passing in the dungeons when Bilbo happened to . . .

_Vanish._

No.

You laugh inwardly, humorlessly. This is insanity—this is not the case. For all you know the clang could be a button—yes! a button. A golden button like on Bilbo's coat. There were quite a few of them left when you saw them before. Perhaps, he kept one or two in his pocket.

What else could it possibly be?

Anything that could make a clang, let's just say.

Curiously,—and cautiously—you peer through the curtains and barely see the hobbit placing his items near the tub. You could only take a glimpse of his hands and the pile of his clothing. Nothing visible at the moment could have made that sound. Leaning forward even more so, you try and get a better view.

The divider trembles and you, with your mouth clamped shut, immediately steady it, hoping that the hobbit didn't notice. But the incredibly light footsteps of our dear Bilbo will be your downfall. 

Water splashes and a faint thud sounds off from beyond the divider.

You need to get out—now. Bilbo cannot see you like this.

To your right, you see an opening and tread lightly toward it before hesitantly going around the bend and finding yourself gazing at the empty chamber beyond. You hold firmly on your towel before making your way to your clothes which hung loosely on the rack—and just happened to be the only thing between you and the hobbit (who peers behind the divider, his towel wrapped around him.)

Reluctantly, you leave your clothes and run out the door.

 

 _I could have sworn I heard something—and saw this thing move,_ the hobbit wonders as he looks at the empty space behind the curtain divider. It must be his mind playing tricks on him. After all he's been through, ("Trolls, goblins, orcs, giant eagles, and don't get me started on dragons or dwarves or wizards,") he has all the right to go with this notion. A moment later, he hears the door shut and looks back at it. No ones there—no one he could see, at least.

"It's occupied," he announces and a muffled voice apologizes.

They should really learn how to knock—and these doors need bolts. Bilbo Baggins sighs deeply, quite confusticated by those kinds of people, and returns to his bath.

 

_The doors are bolted. What now?_

You ask yourself whilst you attempt to get into a chamber—any chamber. You grasp each door handle with trembling hands and push against it hoping one would open. But so far, none has.

The freezing air chills you to the bone and your damp hair drops what feels like frozen needles onto your skin and the towel, as thick as it may be, gives you no amount of warmth and spares not your dignity. The towel's hem rests less than halfway down your upper thigh and barely covers your chest. Continuing your urgent breaking and entering, your senses become heightened to every noise that sounds off, and a fear of being seen in this state surfaces.

You rattle the handle of the next door and, miraculously, a familiar voice speaks from within. "What do you want?" Thorin says, threateningly.

"May I come in? This is urgent. And you must not look this way if and when I enter."

There is a silence.

Then, the sound of the bolts drawing back. Immediately, you enter and shut the door behind you. The chamber before you is the largest one in the house, mainly why it is accommodated by the king and two of his kin—well, they're supposedly his kin.

A hearth is lit and you bask in the warmth of its flame. It's light brightens the room while the other candles remain unlit. Thorin stands near the foot of his large bed, turning away from you.

"I don't suppose you have spare clothing?" You ask with a nervous smile across your face.

"And for what reason, may I ask?"

You tell him briefly what just occurred. And he grows incredibly silent. He might as well be visualizing what state you may be in; you could not imagine what he may be feeling. Something then glints in the corner of your eye, and you turn, curious to what it is. But when you did, you never felt this disappointed in him. He of all people should know better.

–

This night had gotten colder by the second. Windows became vague with thin layers of moisture and, eventually, thin sheets of ice. Thorin had been sitting upon his bed when someone rapped at his door. The king, a bottle of liquor (which he found among others, covered in dust, in the depths of the cellar) in hand, was too weary to have answered. But came the second call and he replied that he would come out in a moment. He lied, which was not like him at all. A moment passed, and he downs the bottle of liquor, taking another one soon enough after he tosses the empty one in the corner somewhere. Vexed at his vision growing vague and at everything else entirely, he curses in his tongue.

 _I cannot lose her,_ he clenched his fist around the bottle as he brought it to his lips, now inwardly cursing the wizard for what he has brought down upon him. _I am_ not _willing to give her up_.

He knows well the agreement he made with Gandalf. At that time, he thought the terms would not have mattered. But now he realizes how wrong he is.

A rattling came beyond the door.

"What do you want?" He sounded completely irked.

Then, he hears the soothing sound of your voice asking him to let you in. The alcohol polluted his mind with lustful thoughts that he failed to ignore. He finishes the bottle before tossing it noiselessly to the corner with the others, not caring if it had broken or not. All he needed to do is to draw the bolts and turn away as you asked. To his mistake, he didn't even bother hiding the empty bottles of liquor and he did not seem to realize that.

Now, after recent events, there he stands, the great Thorin Oakenshield, paralyzed by the mere thought of a woman—who might be stark naked—standing behind him. He indulges himself in pure debauchery or at least the mere thought of committing it. The king bites his inner lip, reminding himself of how foolish he is becoming. _I would never violate her_.

"Thorin, what's this?" Your voice makes him choke on his breaths.

"It's not what you—"

"You've been _drinking_ —the stuff that would get you sick or _kill_ you, might I add! This—smells horrid. What were you thinking?" You draw a deep breath, "Are you not content? Your so close to having everything you desire and yet you result to this?" The dismay and rage is evident in your voice.

Thorin grows silent, ashamed for what he has done. Regardless of the excessive amount of liquor he just ingested, he needs not to be sober to know when you were disappointed in him.

He intends on turning but then he remembers your _state_. He sheds the dark blue sleeved short he wore above an old crimson one, struggling quite a bit, and holds it behind him, waiting for you to take it. And once you do, he says, "I can explain," slurring his words.

"Go on."

He tells you what you needed to know but not everything. "I know not why however," he says, still sounding drunk, "I felt as if you were lost to me for a time. Ever since we came across that bargeman, I saw yet another side of you, one that cared for him and your race as well. I was afraid you would abandon us— _me_ for this—this life. I suppose you could say that I couldn't cope with even the thought your loss."

He could hear you approach, "That is no excuse to be doing this to yourself."

"The fault is mine," he says quietly, "Am I not allowed to vomit mistakes?"

A foreboding silence comes in between you both only to be broken by the crackling of the flame. Your voice sounds, low and faint, "Everyone commits mistakes," you say as your arms slowly wrap around his waist. "But everyone should at least try and not do the same time and time again. That's how we learn."

 

You rest your head against his back, uncertain if you feel disappointment or pity. Perhaps both. He shouldn't be poisoning himself over this, but then again it's somewhat your fault for siding with Bard. However, you can't help but wonder how much he truly cares. If he was willing to do this to himself over the mere thought of losing you, then who knows what he'll do in other situations of this sort. Forgiving him is always an option, perhaps because if ever you find the courage to tell him of your deceit you wish the same from him.

"You can turn around now," you whisper in his ear and he does such.

The dark blue shirt he wore and gave you hangs loosely on your body and ended mid-thigh. His eyes, bright and sharp stares beyond you, undoubtedly culpable. You reach out a hand and tuck a stray tress of hair away from his face.

"You lost me to no one," you try to reassure him, "I never even liked the guardsman." A smile ghosts on your lips, hoping that one would appear on his as well. "He walked too slow and he always smiled," you add, "he was far too tall as well. I prefer someone shorter, one who rarely smiles but when he does it's as if . . ."

Thorin grins widely and you bite your lip to stop your chuckling. You lightly thump his shoulder with your knuckles. "This does not mean I'm not furious with you."

His eyes look up at you like a child trying to escape a punishment from his mother.

"If you think you can use your charm to sway me, you're wrong. I'm impervious to that now—are you even listening?"

His strong arms pull you closer. "You're beginning to sound like my sister." You arch a brow at his choice of words then sigh. This is no laughing matter.

"Never do this again," you tell him, sternly, "I mean it," you lean in and rest your forehead against his, shutting your eyes, "the last thing I would want is to lose you."

You feel his tender kiss and sink into his arms. And an unknown emptiness emerges when he pulls away. His hand runs up the length of your bare leg, and you suppress a moan when it inches further beyond the hem of your shirt.

There is something in his eyes, a dark carnal desire that allures you. He is not himself tonight and you know not why but you did not mind.

 _No,_ you tell yourself, _it is wrong to be rewarding him after his mistake._

"Thorin, this is not the time to . . . ," your voice trails off as his hand moves to your inner thigh. He presses his lips against yours, slowly, passionately before moving down to your neck. Resisting seems purely impossible. And so you give into him. Craning back, you allow him more access to the bare expanse of skin which now scratches against the course hairs of his beard.

"Be with me," he mutters as his lips ghosts from your jaw down to your collarbone, then returns to feast upon your neck, licking and nipping your flesh.

Thorin moves you back, until the foot of the bed brushes against your legs and he lifts you up as he slowly pulls away. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist and your arms around his neck. You could feel his concealed erection against your inner thigh and bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning. Gently, he then lays you down upon the soft bed and hovers atop you, avid and covetous.

The tenderness of his kiss consumes you as he pulls you closer to his body. His hands slide beneath your shirt, slowly, groping and pulling it up just beneath your breasts and you feel the fabric of his garments grind against your bare skin. You writhe beneath him as he pulls away, his chest heaving in anticipation, and gazes down upon your half naked form. Your breaths become labored when Thorin presses his lips against your neck sprawled with dark red specs. Your fingers comb through his hair, drawing him closer; and you could hear him groan. He moves closer, diminishing whatever distance that lay in between you. Your legs are still wrapped around his waist when he slides his hand against your inner thigh, moving upward at an excruciatingly slow pace, turning your ragged breaths into moans. An insurmountable pleasure builds within you as his fingers slide past your folds in a fluid motion, spreading them, toying with your sensitive nub. Your legs tense and your heart pounds intensely against your chest as he rubs circles around your clit, gaining speed until you could hear your heart in your ears and you moaned his name—but then he pulls away before you could come and you begin to ache at his teasing.

He sits up and you eye him curiously as he fumbles with his belt and later on tosses it aside, as well as his shirt. Thorin hovers over you yet again, his broad chest heaves above you, making a restless heat build within your core. His lips meet yours once again, lingering, deepening, until you could feel his tongue slide past your parted lips. A low moan escapes you as his tongue invades your mouth, muffling all your cries of pleasure until you draw back to kiss his neck. The rough hairs of his beard scratches against your skin but you did not mind. Your hands move down to the hem of his trousers, pulling them off his body. He grinds against you, grunting, his hot breath spilling, mixing with yours.

You push him to his back, straddling him, sitting on his still concealed erection. Pulling the shirt over your head, you toss it to the mounting pile of clothing. He gazes up at you, now fully naked before him.

Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer until you could feel the heat of his breath. Leaving a swift kiss upon his neck, you whisper in his ear, "Make me yours."

As he so eagerly pulls off his trousers, you could not help but imagine all the things you could do to him or make him do to you even of you've never done this before. A night of immense pleasure and intimacy—unfortunately never occurred because of a certain hobbit sneezing and knocking on the door.

Wars have been started for less, you could say for certain. Soon, Bilbo will learn—besides it's foolish to wake a sleeping dwarf—that it is life threatening to deny a woman anything she rightfully deserves.


	24. Inimically Cordial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how he enjoys your company. If only you could remain with him for longer. That, however, was not in the deal. It's just a matter of making most out of the time he has with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your kudos and support from reading this! And I'm sorta upset because the extended edition clips for DoS came out (I can link you if you ask) and now I want to rewrite some chapters! (Should I?) Although, I'm happy they followed the book (not exactly but they're close). I may be able to fit in some parts though during their stay in Lake town henceforth.

"Can we not remain here?" Thorin Oakenshield asks you this while he lies down close behind you. His arms are wrapped around your waist and you could feel his warm breath against the nape of your neck.

"We can," you tell him, "but I, for one, am famished."

A smile tugs at the end of his lips regardless of the escalating ache in his head. His vision is still not as clear as it was when he was sober and it actually pains him to look or glance at bright lights. As of now, the king is as famished as you are—in pain as well—but lying here with you, stark naked, in a hearth-lit chamber makes this all worth it.

Not long ago, the hobbit had interrupted you both just to remind Thorin to have dinner. The king had told him that he'll be out in a while and you remembered then that Bilbo was unaware of your presence. But that was after you asked him what you all were having for dinner.

At first, you thought Bilbo had left and failed to hear you. Then, came the sound of his voice saying that he does not know. The silence that came after made you wonder if he wanted to say anything but could not manage to. And it was not until you told him he could leave when he did so.

The king so greatly enjoyed the look on your face afterward: a wide smile from ear to ear while you desperately try to hold in a laugh. Oh, how he enjoys your company. If only you could remain with him for longer. That, however, was not in the deal. It's just a matter of making most out of the time he has with you.

Thorin runs his hand down the bare expanse of your back. And to his surprise, it was a patchwork of long and inflamed scars. How come he did not notice these before? Oh, right. He was drunk before—more than he is now to say the least. Gazing upon them curiously, he means to ask you where you got them but you sit up before he could speak. Clearly, you did not wish to speak of them.

"It's been long since I've lain on a bed," you say quietly—to avoid the topic altogether—while you feel the soft fabric of the bed beneath your skin. A long silence came afterward. Surprisingly, you weren't shivering like you had forgotten the season; however, it didn't take you long to remember, and so you say, "I should retrieve my clothes."

"Allow me," he offers with a kind smile as he moves off the bed to gather his clothing on the ground. He is sober enough to do this task (probably.) Glancing over to you, he notices that you have not moved in your place. "Is something wrong?" You immediately shake your head.

 _Of course there is something wrong, you just couldn't admit it_.

Thorin wears his trousers and shirt; afterwards he fastens his heavy belt around his waist. He searches for his boots and finds them near your feet. You still haven't moved.

"I have quite a lot scars as well," his voice is soft and his words still slurred as he sits down next to you, "all from different battles I've fought in." Your attention moves to him. "Some, I admit, I got in situations that are not as mighty as you think it be."

"Like what?" Your eyes brighten in the light of the hearth.

He pulls his hair back, revealing his scalp and a small dark crater upon it. "I got this when I was but a child,"—he grins—"my sister gave it to me. I was teasing her and she hit me with a broom."

You burst into a series of muffled laughter while he merely sits there, somehow drawing amusement from your reaction. As your laughter begins to fade, he says, "What I am trying to say is: you should not be ashamed for your scars no matter how you obtained them. You should wear them to show your strength, that you are not afraid of what others think of you. What matters is what you think of yourself."

"Wise words from a drunk dwarf," you say ("half-drunk," he mutters) and return his smile while you stroke the side of his head. After a short breath, you add, "I never said I was ashamed."

His warm hands gently frame your face and bring you closer for a chaste kiss upon your brow. "I'm glad to hear that," he says before standing yet again to wear his crimson shirt. This time, he heads for the door and tells you he won't be long.

The hallway is cold and abandoned just as it was earlier this night when he entered his chambers. He walks to the bathing chamber calmly; he staggers quite a bit but it is nothing he cannot manage. Once he retrieves your clothes (finding half an arrow in the pile as well) he heads back but then something catches his eye: a dark flower resting upon the windowsill.

It mocks him; a living reminder of your true purpose here with them. While he continues to inwardly deny his obvious jealousy, he takes the flower and hides it beneath your clothes before he returns to his chambers. He opens the door and finds you as you were moments ago: sitting upon the bed, lost in thought. He hands you your clothes (taking the flower in his fist) and watches you as you dress. You tell him to look away and he sneaks a sly smile before doing so. Facing the warm fire of the hearth, he fiddles with the flower trapped in his palm, reliving his past in his head.

"I'm heading off," you say from behind him, "will you join me?" You pull away tresses of hair from his shoulder and place a kiss on his temple.

"Everything is still quite vague. Give me a moment."

"I'll save you a seat then—and food if there are any left." After saying this, you leave him gazing at the flame. He looks down at the flower in his hand. Who knew such a simple gesture could set him off? Apparently, it was not just liquor that poisoned him. Before he turns his heel to leave, he throws the flower into the fire watching it shrivel and burn. He curses at his promise to the old wizard.

_I will never allow it._

 

The broken arrow's head is still sharp as you toy with it in your pocket. It's the last thing that holds you to your past—and sanity—and you will not lose sight of it.

An odd rapping on glass resounds. Then a low screech. It comes from behind. A sudden ache jolts your head and you swore you saw flames for a moment like everything is burning.

Following the source of the sound, you turn the corner to pass the window you previously slept against. The round blotch reminds you of the utter discomfort you faced and the same red patch that appeared on your forehead. Behind the tainted glass is a crow, black as the night. You wouldn't have seen it if it wasn't for the gleam in its dark eyes. Lifting the latch from the window, you open it carefully, hoping no one hears you—and by that you just mean Thorin.

The crow caws at you, ruffling its feathers and raising its wings.

"Be quiet," you say in a hushed voice and look around. The crow pecks at your hand and you wince watching a thin line of blood stream down. "Return later, when everyone is asleep." It caws again. "Off with you!" You shoo it away and it barely moves. Annoyed, you shut the window and return to your way to the dinning room.

The high-ceilinged chamber is now lit with torches that hang on the pillars. Dwarves—and a hobbit—brim the table, laughing and stuffing their faces with food that hardly even touched their plates. Bilbo of course had used his utensils like any other simple folk. They gratefully remarked your presence and moved around to give you a seat. They even set out a plate for you and ask if you needed utensils; you agree to this of course. Gloin fills your tankard with ale until it overflows and they all laugh and continue with their meals. As you eat, you try your very best not to continually stuff food down your throat and after a moment they begin to ask you where Thorin is and what you both have been doing. You shyly glance over to Bilbo and watch as his ears turn red.

"Thorin was . . . ," you begin and the room turns silent. Everyone's attention turns to you, greatly anticipating your response, "resting," you blurt out at last and the chairs creak as the dwarves shift their weight. "In his room," you add, "And I was doing my business—elsewhere."

Dwalin scoffs and they soon return to their food and cheer, muttering amongst one another like you were not in the room. They clearly expected another answer. You suppose it's not very often they see Thorin with a woman—or they haven't seen him with a woman.

A hand brushes against your shoulder and you turn to see the king himself. Dori, who sits beside you, moves over and allows Thorin to sit. They bring him a plate, a tankard and utensils and regard him greatly.

Their questions on your and Thorin's whereabouts come more frequently now that he's around—and it gradually turns to their language which Thorin would reply to. So far he'd been saying: "It's none of your business," as kindly as he could put it. Then they would give suggestions as to what you both could have done. Some were stated in a language that you couldn't understand but Thorin would always disagree—until . . . Fili asks Bilbo, "Weren't you the one who called them?"

The hobbit stares at them blankly and shakes his head.

"Aye," Bofur says, "Don't ya remember?"

Bilbo sees the intense gaze of Thorin from across the table, he then purses his lips and furrows his brows, "No, not really," he says but they pursue him further.

"I'm pretty sure it was—"

"Mister Baggins is clearly weary from this venture, aren't we all?" Thorin's voice silences the room. "And here I thought you all were starved. Your strength will not be regained by bombarding a hobbit and yet you choose such. Did you all not hear me when I said: 'It's none of your business?' or perhaps you all were too drunken to listen," he pauses, "This better not happen again." He stands from his place and moves out, his arms folded across his chest. "Return to your food and drink," that is the last thing he said.

Their faces become expressionless afterwards and you watch them as they eat in silence. You mean to go to Thorin at the time however you thought he could use the quiet and it might as well be best that you stay with the company, they needed the comfort (whether they ask for it or not.)

——

Whatever remains of the night is cold and dark as you lay on your bed. It did not take you long to find a position you were comfortable with and yet somehow, you had trouble falling asleep. This annoys you greatly. On another note, you could sleep fine if Thorin was here. It's cruel, you think, how he deprives you of your sleep regardless of his presence.

Shifting to the side, you could see Bilbo turned over, sleeping soundly probably dreaming of his next meal or if he would ever return to his home far away. You wonder if Thorin is awake as well and hope that he isn't—not now at least seeing that you have business to attend to. Sitting up in the dark, you breathe a moment before standing and walking to the door. Having already adjusted to the dimness of light, you had no trouble finding your way around. With the outmost caution you open and shut the door, anxious from every creak it makes. No one seems to have heard but the noise cuts cleanly through the silence. You head yet again for the window you've visited earlier. The round blotch casts a dim shadow against the moon light. But the crow was not there.

You open the window slightly, just enough for the crow to be heard or seen if ever it returns. And it will.

The stupid crow had always followed you around when you were in that dark fortress. It did not show itself then but you could hear it cawing through the night like the wargs as they growl and snarl somewhere. At times you would speak to it like a madman hoping it would actually reply. And at some point, believe it or not, it did. A talking crow would be a good thing if it was not for what it spoke of. It only talked about a short old man who lurks about the fortress, hiding, and a white phantom from decades ago awaiting his brethren. The crow said they were kings once, great kings from rich lands, before they were corrupted and lost their crowns, titles and kingdoms. It never specified.

You did not believe the crow at first but you decided to after you met the short old man. Now come to think of it, he was not a man at all. He was a dwarf.

Yes, that would make perfect sense. The man's beard, the old runes tattooed on his forehead to the bridge of his nose, his stature, and his mumbling that you could not understand (Dwarvish, perhaps?) He was definitely a dwarf, but you could not say for certain since it's been long since you've seen him.

You still remember the first time you encountered him while you were held in the darkest and deepest chamber of the tower and just beyond that you could hear the wargs gnashing their teeth clawing against the walls. You could not see anything then; the ultimate pass time was staring into the darkness, hoping the wargs wouldn't find a way in and devour you while you sleep. That's why you avoided it at all costs, sleeping.

The nights just seem to last eternities and the crow would keep you company. Sometimes it would nick at your flesh when it was hungry. It said it ate corpses before, the ones that stayed where you are and if you die it would eat out your eyes.

"I could see you," it said, "but you can't see me, can't catch me." Then it would speak of the old kings again. At one point you asked it, "is there anyway out of here?" but it said, "Mustn't tell. He will know," it paused for a moment, "there he comes, the hoarder," before you could hear it fly away, back into the darkness.

The sound of feet treading against the stone floor echoes through the dark halls. Ragged breaths of a creature drawing nearer grew louder. You were cornered. The only way out is to move forward into the unknown. Perhaps, it was waiting there for you, lurking in the shadows. Alas, it was hardly waiting.

A large body slams you against the wall as it yelled, you could feel its blunt knife against your neck.

"Who are you!" It yells and pushes you against the wall. "The exit! Where is it!"

"I don't know—"

"Liar!" It pushes the knife harder against your skin. "I saw you with them," it's voice turns into a coarse whisper, "the pale one and his legion. You're one of them—an Orc!"

"No, no, I am not—"

" _Lies!_ All lies!"

"I swear to you, I am not lying! I am a Man from Rohan, south of here. I was captured—just like you." You could feel his hand shaking. "You're not from here either, are you?"

Silence.

"Why don't you . . . put the knife down and I will help you find the exit. I shall not betray you."

He took a moment to gather his thoughts and, at length, he said, "Swear on it!"

"I swear on my life."

"If you cross me . . ."

"I won't, I won't."

Afterwards, you felt him release his hold and recall the knife. He began to move forward in the dark and urged you to follow. Your still not quite sure how he managed to see in this light (or the absence of it) or how he came to be here. The creature (or should I say dwarf or small old man) however quite mad is not as horrid as you thought. It took you quite some time to be aware of this but it was worth the trouble. His name still remains unknown to you but he did tell you of his time in the fortress—and of his son whom he left long ago.

A sharp pain stings your hand. You wince and find yourself back in the large old house in Lake Town, staring down at the crow that found its way through the slightly opened window.

The blood streams slightly down your hand where the crow pecked you (yet again) like a strand of red hair. Suddenly the crow's wings flutter as it breaks off into flight. The core flew swiftly past you and perched itself on a rack in the hallway.

"What are you doing?" You asked it silently, half-wondering if you were going mad yourself, talking to a crow.

It makes not a sound and merely flies off further down the hall. Reluctantly, you follow. Turning around the bend, you see it perched in front of Thorin's chamber door.

—

"Thorin," Balin calls his attention, "have you forgotten why you led us here?"

"Of all the dwarves in Middle-earth, you ask _me_ this?"

"Have you forgotten or no?" The king sighs as he folds his arms on his chest.

"Of course not. I was not brought into this conversation to be reminded of the quest I began—that my father began."

"No," Dwalin says as he seats himself on the edge of the bed. "It's about her."

The king lowers his head, "what of her?"

"She has become a distraction."

"You're not sure of that."

"Oh? Then why is she still here then?" The king falls silent and distances himself from the two, denying every thought of you leaving.

Silently, (enough for them to hear) Dwalin mutters, "This is why we don't bring women on quests."

"You know your place, laddie," Balin says, approaching him, "and hers—and it isn't with us."

Thorin turns sharply, "And what if the wizard is mistaken? What if she is not who he thinks her to be?"

"And if she is?" The older dwarf pauses, "She belongs with her kind. And you, yours. One day, when the mountain is reclaimed, you may be betrothed to a princess in the Iron Hills or any of the dwarf kingdoms." The king remains silent, but his face clearly shows his disapproval. "And she," Balin continues, "will be living peacefully with her family."

His brother watches their king for a moment as he avoids meeting their eyes. Then, he says, "you haven't told her yet."

"Not yet," Thorin says lowly, "How could I? Yes, I wanted her to stay even for just a while." The brothers sigh, then Thorin continues, "But you're right—you both are. Reclaiming Erebor is our utmost priority and I cannot allow her to get in the way. I've spent my time with her," he hesitates, "When leave for the mountain, she stays. It would be much easier if I still despised her. I wish I still did." He regrets saying that and so he looks away from them before he could change his mind. "She does not belong with us—she never did. Tomorrow, we wake before dawn and leave for the mountain, tell the rest this except her."

A loud caw emanates from behind the door. The dwarves look toward it in confusion. "Damn crows," Dwalin scowls, "How'd they get in?" His brother shrugs as Thorin opens the door. There, a dark crow perched on a rack. It caws once again before flying across the hallway and out an open window. Curiously, the king made his way to the windowsill. The curtains at either side of it blew with the cold breeze. Moonlight found its way into the hall along with specs of snow. This was not open moments ago, he knew. And so he took the nearest possible weapon he could find, a silver candle holder, as he approaches. He looks out the window cautiously and finds footprints on the roof beneath.

"Thorin," a small voice calls from behind. He turns holding the candle holder high. "It's me," Bilbo says, his hands in the air and the king lowers his so-called weapon.

"What are you doing?" Thorin asks gruffly.

"I should be asking you the same thing," he gestures to the candle holder then told the king that he was looking for you. "She wasn't in the room when I woke," he adds, "I thought she was with you."

Thorin takes a moment to breathe and turns again to the window. "Well, she wasn't,"—he looks to the   roof through the window and sees footprints on the snow, leading away from the building—"but I think I know where she is now."

—

Humiliated by the very dwarves he helped and ridiculed by the Master and his pet, Bard the bargeman at least tries to act as if this day never happened. He never met the dwarves and death is not awaiting for them in that mountain. His children are perfectly fine and sound asleep this cold night. They did not even know that their father went to confront the so-called King beneath the Mountain. For all he cares, there is not one. In his attempts of trying to avoid thinking of the dwarves, he just thought of them more as he sat near the dining table. He could not sleep, not while he continued contemplating that is.

Wood creaks from outside. Light footsteps tread at his doorstep.

 _A thief?_ He asks himself and reaches for his bow.

A light knock on the door.

Bard hesitates and takes his bow in his hand. Reaching for an arrow and pulling it back against the string, he asks, "Who's there?"

There is a silence, so deep that the tension he put on the string could be heard. Then, he hears a voice, saying, "It's me."

 _Of all the people . . ._ He thinks bitterly as he lowers his bow. "What do you want?" He asks as he puts it down.

"Could you come out for a moment?"

"You did not answer my question," he says while he approaches the door then opens it, "What do you want?"

Bard sees your red eyes and swollen eyelids when you say, "Company." The man remains silent, watching you as if he is unsure of what to do. "It's blunt, I know," you add, "I am sorry if I woke you. Your the only one I could turn to at the moment."

"What of your Dwarf friends?" He asks.

Your brows furrow, "I would rather not speak of them. Or even mention their existence," you turn your back to him and lean against the railing. To your right, you notice the Lonely Mountain clear in the moonlit night. You were so pensive and silent that Bard wonders what runs through your thoughts. After a moment, he knew.

"What happened between you and that dwarf king? You both seemed fine before recent events." He says, moving beside you.

"How are you so sure that there was anything between me and Thorin?"

He seems to chuckle for a while, "Last time I checked, I wasn't blind."

"No," you manage a smile—a laugh is harder. "It's nothing," you tell him, (and he clearly does not believe you) "I just worry about him— _constantly_."

An unnerving silence comes over you both. The bargeman knows not what to say. He knows Thorin is set to push through with this quest no matter the risks. It's enough to make anyone worry or frightened, especially when it involves someone they hold dear.

"I told him once," you begin and he quiets his mind to listen, " 'This is suicide. A company of dwarves isn't an army,' but he never listened. If only I could save him—save him from himself, I would and will. A worthless healer, I am if I couldn't."

"I did not know you were a healer. I mean no offense when I say: it seems as if you do a far better job of inflicting pain, not healing it."

"We all have one, our ironies . . . ," your voice trails off. "Thorin wishes me to remain here," you tell him at last, "for what reason, I am still unsure. Perhaps, he thinks my duty with them is fulfilled. They promised me my leave when I gain their trust."

"But that is not all you gained, is it?" He says with an arched brow and you wrap your arms around yourself.

"No, it is not," you scoff, "how come you're aware of my—situation?"

"I, too, was in love."

"I am not in love with him," you thought aloud.

"You're just saying this because of what happened and you know it."

"But if he does—make me stay here, would you be so kind as to let me under your roof, again?"

"Of course," he says, before looking worried. "And if he regrets what he said?"

"Then I will fight beside him," you immediately say, "until whatever end."

—

There Thorin Oakenshield watches you converse with the wretched bargeman. He hid beneath the shadow of a house across it, musing over what awaits him in the future—and if you had a place in it.

You were not supposed to hear him say what he did just moments ago. But, he supposes, it's for the better. Leaving would not be such a hard thing to do anymore, on your side at least. You would know where to go, he just hopes you don't follow them to the Mountain and risk your life for a quest that you were not meant to take part in.

He knows you would return to him, though. You always do. And it becomes harder for him to let you go because of this. It was inevitable, the deal was coming to its close. Time is running out. He knows this—he just could not accept it. Until now.

 _I am not losing her again,_ he tells himself. _At least she would be away from danger . . ._

The dwarf turns away, knowing that if you ever do return you would act as if you were ignorant of the truth.

_. . . she would be safe, with her brother._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. I um already watched the Battle of the Five Armies and it was . . . Great.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure as to how often I would be updating, hopefully quite often c:  
> All mistakes are mine and  
> Thank you for reading! C:


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